Murder at Sea
by The Gull's-Way Collective
Summary: Poison, blunt objects, mobsters, manuscripts, and way too many forks: it's rough seas ahead for Mark and Milt.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Most of the characters aren't ours and we make no profit from them. This is a work of fiction. No real persons, living or dead, are depicted.

**Authors' notes: **This novella appeared in the third Star for BK fund-raising 'zine. Judy, Hivequeen Emeritus, was on extended leave, and Owl stepped in to take up the slack. Notecards were strewn everywhere, and charts and graphs were in evidence, all proof that those implants aren't quite what the specs indicated--LML

**Murder at Sea**

by

The Gulls Way Collective

**Chapter One**

After a day that had begun ten hours earlier, at LAX, and had included several nervous minutes of a layover in Little Rock, where Aunts Zora and May had almost failed to make the flight (because they'd gotten busy watching "a man in a gabardine coat who was very clearly up to _no_ good"), Milton C. Hardcastle might have been excused if all he really wanted to do was sit down and put his feet up.

But Mark McCormick was having none of it. In his first half-hour aboard the S.S. Thalia, he'd already poked into the various corners of their cabin, pronounced it "neat", then campaigned for a return trip up to the promenade deck.

"We don't want to miss the cast-off," he said insistently.

The judge checked his watch. "We've got forty-five minutes. Relax, will ya? Got the boat drill after that, and some kinda champagne 'welcome aboard' thing, and then dinner. You gotta pace yourself on these cruises."

The only pacing the younger man was doing was the five steps between the balcony and the desk, where he looked over Hardcastle's shoulder to study the schedule himself.

"But we need to get the Aunts, and find a good spot on the deck," he said, still trying to sell the plan.

"It's a big deck. _Sit_."

Mark sat, though it didn't look like it would hold long.

Hardcastle went back to his perusal of the itinerary. "We've got seven days, a whole week. Rio Blanco, a couple of days of blue water sailing, and then Bermuda and back again. Looks like we're assigned to the first seating for dinner." He ran his finger down the evening's entertainments, stopped abruptly at one unexpected thing, and frowned.

It was a long moment of puzzled silence before he gradually became aware that Mark was still sitting silently, too. He half-turned, looking over his shoulder, wondering if his own sudden concern had somehow transmitted itself to the younger man.

No, Mark was frowning as well, but it seemed to be a worry of his own. He looked up and met the judge's eye. "I feel a little guilty."

"Huh?"

"The Aunts, I mean, this is all kind of expensive. They really didn't have to—"

Hardcastle shook his head sharply. "It's not about '_have _to'. They _wanted_ to do something nice for your graduation. Just made more sense to put it off until the bar exam was over."

"You mean I wouldn't have been much fun six months ago?" Mark grinned ruefully.

"Yeah, well, all that gloom and doom mighta worn a little thin." As the main guy who'd had to put up with it, Hardcastle was speaking from extensive experience. "And, anyway, this is the cruise they wanted to go on."

He turned back to the itinerary, flipped the page, and looked at the neatly-printed insert sheet with its blood-red heading: "Murder at Sea". Below that, in Gothic script, it continued on—"The Mystery Writers League proudly presents a week of crime with a nautical air." He squinted at the headshot that occupied the middle of the page—Lex Portly, best-selling author. Hardcastle had already heard the man's latest work discussed at length on the flight down from Little Rock. Even McCormick had admitted to knowing whodunit.

"I dunno," the judge said grimly, "maybe we shouldn't be encouraging them."

"Come on," Mark chided, "lots of people like mysteries. They're escapism. Nothing like that ever happens in real life—the coincidences, the clues, the hairs-breadth escapes. And," he smiled, "the good guys always win."

"Not very realistic."

Mark shrugged. "Who wants realism? Got enough of that. Hey," he leaned forward a little, "what's on the schedule for _after_ dinner?" He started reaching for the program.

Hardcastle pushed it aside and said, "The usual, got a dance review and a magic act. Hey," he checked his watch, "probably should check on May and Zora; might take us a while to find a good spot."

Mark smiled, puzzled. "I thought you said it's a big deck."

"Well, _yeah_," the judge shrugged, already on his feet, the program neatly closed, "but they're kinda short, so we need to snag a place by the railing for 'em, right?"

00000

The Aunts were found, settled into their own cabin, and already working on their to-do list.

"The Agatha Christie Memorial Tea," Zora chortled. "We can't miss that."

"It's to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of _Ten Little Indians_," May added.

Hardcastle looked blank.

"You know," Zora prodded, "_And Then There Were None_."

Still blank.

"The one where the judge did it," May chirped helpfully. "He kills the other nine people because they couldn't be punished in the courts."

Mark grinned. "You mean they got off on _technicalities_?" He gave the judge a quick elbow nudge. "I shoulda figured you got the idea from somewhere."

Hardcastle was biting down, Mark figured, and probably keeping score, but half the time he himself couldn't tell if the Aunts knew they were providing straight lines. He suspected they did more often than they let on.

A long toot of the ship's horn interrupted that thought.

"Oh," May said, "that'll be the 'all ashore'. We'd better get up to the deck if we want to see it all."

They found an elevator, and joined the throng moving out to the landward side of the promenade deck.

"Forward or back?" Mark asked, shepherding the ladies through the crowd near the doors.

Zora looked up, and over her shoulder at him, with a smile. "I'd say towards the bow." She stepped a little to the side and let him take her arm. "Always better to see where you're going than look at where you've been."

There was no appreciable motion yet, but the sounds from the crowd closer to the rail let them know the ship was already underway. They moved forward until they reached a thinly-populated patch, where May and Zora could fit side-by-side at the railing. May waved cheerfully to no one in particular, perhaps to the longshoremen clearing away the equipment below.

And now the gap between ship and dock was widening at a faster pace. Zora sighed and smiled at May. "Departures are always so sad."

"It's _Miami_," the judge muttered, "none of us are even _from_ here."

"It's the principle, Milton." She reached back and patted his arm. "You'll understand when you're older."

There was something in her tone that caught Mark's ear and made him take a closer look at the two women tucked in against the railing. They were brisk and beaming, but undeniably advanced in years.

_Old . . . that's what you mean, right? And every time you leave a place, it's knowing that maybe— _He shook his head almost imperceptibly as if to get rid of the thought. He didn't want anything to cast a shadow on them right now.

Even Hardcastle had fallen silent. Mark saw him looking down at the water, now slipping more swiftly past the side of the ship. They had gathered speed smoothly. They'd soon clear Fisher Island, and the end of the narrow seaway, with bluer water ahead.

Mark turned, facing back toward the west. The sun was slipping down into the afternoon cloud banks. He saw the crowd thinning around them, some people snapping one last photograph. He glanced down at his watch.

"We've got a schedule to keep," he said cheerfully. "Boat drill next, then champagne. Meet the captain."

"There's over a thousand of us and only one of him. He's gonna be spread a little thin," the judge pointed out, as they headed back toward the doors.

"But Mr. Portly will be there, too." Zora said, smiling.

May nodded eagerly. "Though we already saw him, coming aboard." She dropped her voice to a half-whisper, "He's a bit older than he looks on his dust jackets, but we knew him right off, even in dark glasses."

Mark ushered them back inside and toward the elevators, pondering the perils of attempted anonymity around the Aunts.

00000

The boat drill went off without a hitch, but Mr. Portly proved surprisingly elusive at the welcome party. May and Zora were not alone in their disappointment; it was obvious that a sizable coterie of fans, mostly ladies of a certain age, had been hoping to meet him. The Aunts consoled themselves with the glasses Mark fetched for them.

"He's probably holed up in his stateroom, hard at work on his next chapter," Zora said understandingly.

"Yes," May agreed, "it's a demanding art."

"Potboilers?" Hardcastle asked; his tone was skeptical.

"Heavens, no," Zora replied.

"Not potboilers," May looked equally shocked. "_Cozies_. He's the master of the cozy."

"What the heck is a cozy?" Hardcastle gave Mark a sideward glance. The younger man was looking, very pointedly, off somewhere else.

"Well," said Zora thoughtfully, "it's rather a hard thing to define."

"Amateur sleuth, usually female, small town, and the victim dies off-stage."

All three of them were now looking at McCormick, who returned their gazes and shrugged once, lightly.

"Yes," Zora nodded, "I'd say that's about right."

Hardcastle was still staring.

"They're like puzzles," Mark said. "Good for taking your mind off things . . . like where you are."

"And there wasn't much left on the library cart by the time they got to the upper tiers," Hardcastle speculated.

"That too," he admitted ruefully.

00000

They adjourned to the dining room a little before six-thirty, with Aunt May on Mark's arm and Zora on Hardcastle's. There was an intimidating amount of linen and crystal. Mark had visions of snooty waiters and steak tartare, but to his delighted surprise, the man who seated them was pleasantly polite.

"I will be your waiter on this voyage," he said, with a smile. "My name is Phillip."

They were four at a table for five, and the other seat remained stubbornly unoccupied.

"Oh, dear," May said quietly, once it had become clear that no one else was coming, "I hope nothing bad happened."

Mark looked down, counting forks and trying to assign them different roles. "Some people just don't like fancy dinners," he said quietly.

"Or they're pooped out," Hardcastle added. "Long day."

"Or they met with foul play, on their way to the ship," Zora mused, and then, seeming to notice that this had been met with a considerable silence from the two men, she added primly, "Well, it _happens_."

May nodded her support. Hardcastle frowned sternly.

The wine steward arrived, followed thereafter by Phillip again, and menus, and courses, and a series of silverware navigational issues. Zora tutored gently and Mark proved an apt pupil.

"A different knife for fish?" he asked dubiously.

"So you don't cut the bones. They're very fragile."

"Which means," Hardcastle interrupted, "that you really don't need a knife at all."

"Yeah, but they're short of sticks here." And when this got him a questioning look from May, he added, with a grin, "That's how _he_ eats 'em. This is better, heads cut off and everything."

And so through to dessert and coffee, and the four of them easing back in their chairs, looking properly sated.

"Nice," Mark said. "Very nice. Thank you," he added, to the ladies.

"Now stop that," Zora sighed. "You can't be thanking us every few minutes all week. It won't work."

"All right, but just this once, okay? _Thanks_."

"You're very welcome," May replied, and then, "The cabin is all right?" A slightly worried expression. "Not too small?"

"It's great," Mark grinned, not adding that he'd stayed in much smaller accommodations for much longer than one week, and the food had never been this good. There was something in the judge's expression that made him think the man had gotten the unspoken reference.

"Not that we'll be spending much time in our cabins, anyway," Zora said.

General comments of agreement and then, with a farewell nod to Phillip, they decamped.

"There's some sort of show this evening," Mark offered, as they crossed the main lobby toward the elevators.

The judge had covered a couple of yawns toward the end of dinner; he looked like he might be constructing an excuse to bow out, but Mark was determined to be a good guest, even if yodeling and clog dancing were on the program.

It was Zora, though, doing the excuses. "Never mind us—you go have a good time."

"I hear they have a magician." May beamed. Hardcastle gave up the fight and yawned widely. "But, you must be worn out. You had a lot further to come than we did today."

"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted, "but you two can't be tired yet."

"No," Zora confided, "but we have a little get-together to attend."

Mark and the judge had matching puzzled looks.

"Mr. Portly's fan club is meeting tonight. We have a newsletter—_The Lexicon_."

"We've been in correspondence," May added, "but we've never actually _met_ before. We're all devoted admirers of his work."

"And, oh _my_," Zora took a peek at the fob watch she had pinned in her sweater pocket, "if we don't hurry we'll be late."

"Breakfast?" Mark asked. "Not too early," he added hopefully.

"Whoever's up first should knock," May replied practically.

And then they were off, scurrying to parts unknown. The two men stood there for a moment. When the Aunts departed, there was always a bit of an energy void, as though nature needed a moment or two to deal with the vacuum.

"Sounds harmless," Hardcastle finally conceded, but as though he'd had to think about it first.

Mark nodded, then he turned his head, looking sideward. "How tired are you, anyway?"

"Too tired for a magic show, that's for sure."

Mark smiled. "Okay, but if you go straight to bed after a meal like that, you'll be sorry. How 'bout a walk on the deck?"

The judge nodded without giving it much apparent thought and they found a stairwell. The deck was sparsely populated and dusk had verged into twilight. The two men settled into an easy strolling pace, with only the occasional technical comment from Hardcastle.

"You've been on a lot of cruises?" Mark finally asked, after twenty yards of silence.

"Oh," the judge lifted his chin from whatever he'd been contemplating, "yeah, some. The first time wasn't too much fun."

Mark lifted an eyebrow in question.

"It was to Hawaii, '43. Bunks from floor to ceiling, 'bout a foot and a half clearance between each. Not so bad for the officers, though, we got an extra six inches," he grinned.

"I'm surprised you ever wanted to do it again."

"Well," he conceded, "Nancy liked it. Shuffleboard, deck chairs," he made a little and-so-on gesture with his hand, "magic shows, too. She liked all that stuff." He was smiling, maybe it had taken on a shade of the pensive. "Been a while, though, since I've done it."

Mark was rapidly calculating "a while" as at least fifteen years. He was groping about for a change of subject when he saw the judge looking fairly fixedly to the left. His head turned as they walked, still tracking on something that was now behind them.

"What?" he asked curiously, looking in that direction himself and seeing only a few fellow passengers, standing in the lobby just the other side of the aft-most doors.

"I know that guy," Hardcastle said quietly.

Mark was still looking, though they were almost past the sight line. There were several guys to choose from, all mostly nondescript.

He sighed. "Why do I suppose that we aren't talking about somebody you attended a legal conference with?"

Hardcastle broke off his long stare and shifted his gaze back to the younger man. "Huh," he huffed, "I know a lot of people. They're not _all_ underworld types."

"But this guy is, huh?"

Hardcastle nodded reluctantly, looking like he wanted to turn around and have another gander.

"So," Mark said, catching his elbow and correcting his course firmly, "even the Godfather is allowed to take a vacation once in a while. And it's not like he's _going_ anywhere, at least not till we get to San Rio."

The judge, temporarily persuaded, resumed his stroll. The silence had gone a little tense, though.

Mark finally sighed. "Is this guy on the lam or something?"

"Probably not," Hardcastle conceded. "Been a while since I heard anything about him."

"He's got a name?"

"Oh, yeah," Hardcastle looked grim. "A bunch of those. Let's see. For passport purposes he'd probably be Henry Ruby. To his _close_ associates, it'd be 'Harry the Collector', or maybe 'Meat-hook Harry'."

Mark suppressed a shudder.

"I'd heard he's kinda nautical, though," Hardcastle continued, almost without a pause. "Nobody's ever proved it, but they say he's given a lot of people a one-way ride out past Sandy Hook on his boat."

A moment of thoughtful silence and then McCormick asked quietly, "Are we still on vacation?"

More silence. Another ten feet.

"Yeah," Hardcastle finally replied. "Not likely he'd do something stupid out here. But if he _were_ to . . ." He cast one quick glance backwards, almost wistfully.

"We'd tell the authorities in Bermuda all about it, right?" Mark grinned.

A sigh of resignation from the man beside him was followed by a reluctant, "I _suppose_."

00000

They were approaching the midship entrance on the starboard side, well away from the object of Hardcastle's interest. Mark reached for the door and opened it, waiting for the judge to step in.

The older man frowned for a moment and then took the hint.

Mark took a quick look at the diagram on the wall near the staircase and then headed down. The judge followed, still lost in thought. Mark had turned right again, two decks down, not the most direct route back to their cabin. He'd already gotten a few steps ahead.

The judge got a sudden twinge as he oriented himself. "Hey," he said sharply, "wrong way."

"Nah," Mark assured him, "still out for a walk, just inside." The hallway widened up ahead, sounds of people laughing, a few strains of music, a drum roll.

McCormick was still just strolling, not looking as if he intended to turn left and join the crowd in the Nautilus Room. The judge heaved a sigh of relief. They were almost past—Mark was saying something about it being still early, Malibu time—when a few words of a half-familiar song floated out above the buzz of the distracted crowd inside.

"_Come rain or come shine . . ._"

Mark paused in mid-step, and Hardcastle was forced to a sudden stop behind him. It was a mellow baritone that would never be mistaken for Frank Sinatra.

"_We'll be happy together, unhappy together. Now won't that be just fine._"

Mark had turned, and was just standing there, with the oddest expression on his face.

"_The days may be cloudy or sunny. We're in or out of the money. But I'm with you always; I'm with you rain or shine._"

The big finish sounded slightly out of synch with the over-extended band. A smattering of applause came from an audience that was probably more interested in ordering another round of drinks. And Mark still stood, not taking the five steps back that would be required to confirm what he obviously already knew.

The music was starting up again, but before the vamp had played through, McCormick suddenly unstuck himself and turned on his heel, moving down the hall, out of range of the voice.

Hardcastle hustled to catch up and they walked on, in hurried silence, for a few more moments before Mark finally said, still looking straight ahead, "You _knew_ he was on board?"

"Hell no," the judge said sharply. "Well, I mean, not until _we_ were on the ship ourselves."

"When the hell were you planning on telling me?"

Hardcastle gave that one some thought, and finally said, in all sincerity, "Not till after we'd cast-off."

"Well," Mark stopped again, turning toward him, "you got _that_ right. Dammit. I swore I was never going to show up on his doorstep again. _He'd_ have to make the next move . . . and we all know how that's gone the last couple of years." He shook his head. "I sent him an invitation to my graduation, you know," he added. "I suppose he might not have gotten it. Might have been an old address." He paused, looking back down the hallway. "Now look at this. It looks like I hunted him down again. _Damn_."

"It's a big ship," the judge offered assuringly "Might go the whole week without running into him."

"Yeah, but I'd have to know he was on board; his name's probably all over that program you were looking at."

Hardcastle nodded glumly.

"And how the hell do these things happen?" McCormick's eyes narrowed. "The _Aunts,_" he answered his own question with an air of confident suspicion.

"Do they even _know_ about Sonny?"

The younger man looked suddenly self-conscious. "Um . . . yeah. I think it was a few years ago. Zora. Maybe I was a little upset."

"You got a lot to learn about the confession business, kiddo. A couple of glasses of blackberry cordial, a little pat on the arm, and the next thing you know, they've got it _all_ out of you, the whole ball of wax. And they _never_ forget."

"_Yeah_." Mark let out a heavy breath, changing the subject, "Okay, so, if he does spot me, he'll know I knew he was here, and well . . . _that'll_ sure as hell be awkward." He shook his head again. "I'll just have to hide-out in the cabin. Maybe not mornings. I don't think he gets up much before noon. Good thing there's room service."

"Nonsense," Hardcastle interrupted the nervous soliloquy, "you just face it like a man."

Mark looked doubtful.

"And I'll make sure he knows May and Zora set you up. But you probably shouldn't put it off too long; then it really would look like you were avoiding him, like you had something to hide."

McCormick nodded in what appeared to be pained agreement.

"Wanna go back and hear some Sinatra?" The judge hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

"_No_," Mark replied sharply. "It was a nice day. Let's not ruin it. Tomorrow is plenty soon enough."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Two light raps on the door. It was definitely before nine o'clock but Hardcastle had been awake for a while, up and dressed, just killing a little time paging through the schedule that had been slipped under the door sometime during the night.

He cast a quick glance over at the shape in the other bed. He'd seen the other man, up and out on the balcony at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night, and he wasn't eager to wake him now. Anyone who missed breakfast would just have to hold on bravely until brunch.

He went to the door and opened it before Zora could knock again. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

"Still asleep," he said with a jerk of his head toward the room.

"May, too." Zora smiled. "Up to all hours rereading _Murder at Sea_. But I thought you might be hungry."

"After that dinner last night? In a couple of days, I suppose. Maybe a cup of coffee."

They made their way down to the buffet, where a cup of coffee was gradually redefined to include some toast, eggs Benedict, and a serving of hash browns. Zora chose tea and a croissant, with a nice plate of sliced melon. They found a table by the window, and watched the waves running high, a brisk wind tearing spray off the peaks.

As they sat and enjoyed the view, Hardcastle supposed he ought to bring it up. He'd always thought of Zora as the ringleader; he suspected it had been that way right along, though May was the senior by several years.

"You know," he started tentatively; his aunts were among the few people he ever approached that way, "it might've been a good idea to have warned McCormick."

Zora was staring at him blankly, then, after the briefest moment, her face fell a little. "Oh, we wondered about that. Everything so compact and all; it might bring back bad memories. That's why we insisted on the outside rooms, with the balcony. Though," Zora half-frowned, "I suppose they do have a sort-of balcony in San Quentin, too."

Hardcastle sat there, momentarily bemused, contemplating the difference between a cell on the upper tier in South Block with its view out onto the gunwalk, and the place where they were now. He couldn't think of a single point of commonality. McCormick would probably say even the mashed potatoes were grown on different planets. He shook his head to clear the distraction.

"That's not what I meant," he said gently.

"What, then?" Zora's expression lapsed into puzzlement. "If he's feeling queasy, we have some—"

"_No_," the judge interrupted firmly. "I mean about Sonny being on board . . . you know, his _father_."

Zora sniffed. "Well, we did notice that, or May did. I thought you must have seen it, too, the both of you."

"You mean yesterday afternoon, after we boarded?"

She nodded. "We certainly didn't want to bring it up if he didn't. He's quite right, you know, if someone is that unreliable as a parent, one really must simply ignore him."

"You didn't know about it in advance?" Hardcastle asked doubtfully.

"Heavens no. Why would you think that? And, anyway, we both think Mark could do much better than that Mr. Daye for a father."

"It's not one of those things that's really negotiable."

"Hmmph," Zora said.

"Just a coincidence then?" Hardcastle tried to grab the conversation and steer it back onto the main path.

"So it would appear."

He frowned. Not that he didn't believe his aunt, and he knew Mark would say the same, it was just the idea of that much odd luck was . . . foreboding. Worse than McCormick in a dudgeon because he thought he'd been set up by the Aunts, would be having the guy slinking around convinced he'd been targeted by the Fates.

Still, odder things had happened, _pretty damn often, too. _The ticket would be for him to track down Sonny, have a quick laugh about it, make a few pointed remarks about how well the kid was doing, and that would be that. It might actually be kind of satisfying.

"And make sure he knows Mark graduated with honors," Zora interjected, as though she'd heard his whole line of thinking out loud. The judge felt his cheeks flush a little.

"What makes ya think I'm gonna go look him up?"

"Well, if you don't, I will," she said firmly.

00000

Mark awoke to an empty cabin and a feeling of befuddlement, which he didn't think was the consequence of what little he'd had to drink the evening before. Dawn had been duking it out with some clouds in the southeast by the time he'd finally been able to sleep. He checked his watch—ten-fifteen.

The judge, he supposed, had escorted the Aunts to breakfast. Feeling a twinge of guilt for not being up and enjoying himself, he crawled out of bed to get on with it. The shower got him half-way back to feeling human, but it still took him a couple of tries at the dresser, in search of where he'd put his socks.

It was the second sockless drawer, though, that stopped him in his barefooted tracks.

It was Hardcastle's stuff—polo shirts, handkerchiefs, and half-covered, but not particularly hidden, a document that appeared to have some heft to it. He picked it up almost before he'd thought about it.

It was a few hundred pages, at least, and held together by brass brads inside plain blue tag-board covers. He opened it and stared down at the typed frontispiece at what was clearly a title: _Outline for Murder _and, under that, "by Millicent Hartwhistle".

He turned the page with a feeling that was part dread and part compulsion and found, to his surprise, that the first couple of paragraphs weren't half bad; he'd pulled lots worse off the library cart. And then the source struck him one more time, and he slowly closed the cover and sat with the thing in his lap for a moment. He hadn't even realized the man knew where home row was.

A knock on the door startled him out of his deep and somewhat perplexed thoughts. With a guilty jerk, he straightened up, hurriedly returned the manuscript to its place, and closed the drawer with a small thump.

"Just a sec," he said loudly, opening the one below that, snatching out a pair of socks, then quickly donning them and his shoes.

He was at the door a moment later, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt. "Hi, Aunt May."

She looked up at him, her expression just a tad concerned. "You're all right, Mark? Not the _mal de mer_?" His blankness must have shown; she rapidly amended it, "Seasickness. None of that, I hope?"

He only just then noticed it, an almost imperceptible give and take underfoot, nothing unpleasant at all. "Oh, no, fine. Everybody else up early?"

"Zora and Milton were. I'm afraid we're the slugabeds. Missed breakfast entirely."

"Now there's a crisis." Mark smiled, pushing all thoughts of manuscripts, and their unlikely sources, to the back of his head. "We'll have to wait a whole 'nother hour before we can chow down."

"Oh, nothing like _that_, dear." May took his arm in comforting sympathy. "They've got a brunch buffet in the Coral Room."

Mark laughed as she led him off. "I think I can actually hold out till lunch . . . but maybe a cup of coffee."

00000

The cup of coffee somehow acquired a waffle, with strawberries and whipped cream, to go with it. And a couple of very _small_ sausages. And a glazed pear with a sprig of mint on it.

May took a scone and a cup of tea. She fetched the silver, and Mark carried the tray, with both their snacks on it, over to a table in the corner of the mostly-empty dining area.

He got her seated, sorted everything out, sat down, and looked at his share doubtfully. "There's no way I'm gonna be able to handle lunch after this."

Aunt May waved that away airily. "Don't worry. There's a tea-buffet from two until four-thirty. They say it's very lovely. Do you like watercress?"

"Never had it," Mark said cheerfully around his first bite of waffle.

"Men usually don't care much for it," May said with a sigh. "It's not very _substantial_, but I'm sure we can rustle you up something with ham in it." This last bit was spoken with the determination of a woman who was willing to forage to keep the wolf from her family's door.

Mark smiled fondly then looked up, taking in the dining area, and all the late-rising stragglers, with a sweep of his eyes. He blinked once and remembered what had kept him up the night before.

"Aunt May . . ." he started, and then bit down on the words—the tang of ingratitude.

But it was already too late; she could see something was wrong. She sat there leaning forward just a little, waiting for the rest.

He reframed the issue and said it straight out. "I'm happy." He smiled to go along with it and then added, "I'm . . . _content_. Really. I don't need him anymore. Maybe I never did."

May's half-frown betrayed some apparent puzzlement. "You don't need whom, dear?"

Now Mark was frowning, too. "Sonny," he said, "my father." He set his fork on the plate and sat back. "And it's pretty obvious that he doesn't need me."

May framed a little "oh", almost silently, then put her teacup down and reached across the table to place her hand on his, a gentle pat. "Well, I hate to say that some people simply can't be helped, but I really do think you've done your best by him. I don't think anyone would blame you if you simply ignored the man."

It was Mark's turn to be puzzled. "But . . . you and Aunt Zora—" He bit down on the words once more. May was still looking at him expectantly.

Light dawned slowly. He started over again. "You mean you _didn't_ know he was going to be on board?"

"Us?" May looked surprised. "Dear me, no. One wouldn't need a copy of Emily Post to know _that_ might be a bit awkward. Just one of those unfortunate occurrences, I'm afraid," she added, with a sigh.

Mark gave that some thought. He really thought he might be happier if it _had _been the Aunts. The other way smacked of intervention at an even higher level.

"And, anyway," May drew herself up and said, "Zora and I would never _interfere_."

There was just a hint of an arch smile. Mark was pretty sure she meant this last part as humor, but nobody played it straight better than Aunt May. She radiated innocent sincerity; the best conmen always did, and Mark wondered if there wasn't a gene for it somewhere in the Hardcastle family tree.

He decided to take it at face value. He smiled in gentle, nodding agreement. She gave his hand a final squeeze of reassurance and withdrew to her tea.

The rest of the meal's conversation devolved into comments on food—May was astonishingly well informed about the history of the scone. Nothing more was said about Mark's wayward father.

When the last bite of sausage had been dispatched, and they were both sitting back in contentment, Mark finally said, "Suppose we ought to go look for them?"

"A stroll on the deck," May nodded, "to find Milton, at least. Zora said she'd probably attend this morning's lecture on slow-acting poisons."

"Poisons?"

"You know, you slip them into the food in chapter one, and the victim feels a bit queasy by page seventeen, but doesn't succumb until all the suspects have come and gone a bit. The poor sleuth will have her hands full. There are always advances in chemistry to keep up with—what can and can't be detected."

Mark felt a little queasy himself, though it might have been the waves picking up, or the second sausage. He decided a walk would do him good. He was up, and escorting Aunt May toward the nearest door, before he realized that he wasn't even worrying anymore about whether or not he would encounter Sonny.

00000

The talk had been well-attended, and there was a cluster of eager questioners flocked around the foot of the stage at the end. Hardcastle suspected Zora probably would have been one of them, but perhaps felt she mustn't try his patience.

"Georgette Seaton really is one of the best," she said as they moved with the rest of the crowd, up the steps to the back of the general-purpose theater. "Her Dr. Ryskind mysteries are always _very_ carefully researched."

Hardcastle frowning thoughtfully but said nothing.

"Lunch?" Zora asked cheerfully.

"Maybe later."

"Oh . . . yes." Zora said, nodding understandingly.

They were out in the passageway, and he spotted McCormick, a head taller than most of the departing audience and moving against the flow. Zora had seen him too, and waved. May was now visible at his side as the crowd parted further.

"Interesting lecture?" McCormick asked with a slightly-raised eyebrow.

"Hmm," the judge replied. "Some of those things are pretty insidious . . . Thallium—"

"Oh, that one's easy," May interjected, "makes your hair go thin."

"That's an _old_ one," Mark said, frowning a moment in recollection. "Agatha Christie, um . . ."

"_Pale Horse_, very good," Zora smiled. "Did you know she was a pharmacist?"

"Handy," Mark replied. "But you must have heard of lots of cases of poisoning when you were a judge, Judge."

Hardcastle looked aghast. "No, not really. We're talking about real life, here. People usually just get angry and bash somebody over the head with something, or jab 'em with a knife if they're in the kitchen. All this stuff involving teacups is kinda unusual."

"Colonel Mustard," Mark grinned, "with a candlestick in the library."

"See," Hardcastle shook his head, "it's _not_ a game."

"Yeah," Mark shrugged, not looking very chastised, "but games are games, and books are books, and they do help distract you from the real stuff sometimes, which isn't always a bad thing, right?"

"Okay, _sometimes_," the judge admitted reluctantly.

"And speaking of books," May said cheerfully, "I have a date with a deck chair, and the last chapter of _Murder at Sea_."

"Might join you," Hardcastle replied.

"Yeah, he's got that Civil War book to finish. Seven hundred pages, footnotes even." Mark managed a dramatic shudder. "Now _that's_ real life."

"Well, _yeah_," Hardcastle huffed, "but I also brought along some Zane Grey."

"How about you two?" May turned toward her sister and Mark.

Zora waved her off. "I've already been sitting too long. I'm going to promenade," she added grandly.

"I'll join you," Mark said with a nod to Zora. "Gotta work up an appetite."

00000

The four parted ways, McCormick following Aunt Zora and then scooting around her to grab the door. He stepped out after her, into the bright sunshine and the warm sea breeze.

He took a deep breath and smiled. "I'll never get tired of it." Zora was looking up at him with a questioning smile. "The ocean," he said, as though it might need explaining. "From since I was a kid, I've always like it." His expression went a little more thoughtful. "That might've been one of the few good things about San Quentin. If you were up high, and found the right window, and stood in just the right spot, kinda angled, and scraped some of the crud off, you could see it—the ocean."

Zora looked a little dubious.

"Well, yeah," he conceded, "it was reinforced glass and sometimes it was painted on the outside—geez, I don't know why they had to do that—and you had to let your eyes kinda go out of focus, not to see what was between you and the water."

"Sounds like an awful lot of lemons to make very little lemonade." Aunt Zora frowned.

"Maybe," Mark said, "but that's what I had to work with, so I got pretty good at it."

Zora nodded once, then looked up at him again as he shortened his stride to match hers. "You know you don't have to spend all your time on board escorting us old ladies around."

"What makes you think I don't like the company?" Mark teased gently. They'd arrived at the aft deck, and one of the pools.

"I'm just thinking you might prefer someone closer to your own age," Zora replied, nodding in the direction he'd been looking. There were at least enough young ladies there to constitute a bevy.

"Oh, I was just taking in the scenery," Mark smiled. "Habit."

"Let's see." Aunt Zora shaded her eyes as she surveyed them all. She stopped just short of pointing. "That one in the little suit—I supposed you'd have to call it a suit—with the polka dots, her name is Mary Sue Kolpeckney. She's from Topeka. She's very nice."

"You _know_ her?"

"Oh, we just met in person last night, but she's been a faithful contributor to _The Lexicon_, right from the start. And she's written a novel. A bit purple in the prose department, but I think the second one is coming along better." Zora stared pensively. "She could catch her death in that thing."

"A writer, huh?" Mark looked dubious.

"Well, she does have a _real_ job. She's a librarian."

Mark nodded. He briefly considered the complexities of having _any_ sort of social contact, whatsoever, with someone who was at risk of reporting back to the Aunts.

_Not a chance_. He smiled down at Zora.

"Trying to get rid of me, huh?"

"Just don't want you getting bored."

"No," Mark shook his head, "not likely. Not that I'd mind bored once in a while, you know, just for a change of pace." He sighed. "And anyway, thank you."

"I thought we were over that," Zora scolded gently.

"No, this is for something else."

"What?"

"Oh," Mark suddenly felt a little nervous, "I dunno what you'd call it. It's just that you and Aunt May, you've always treated me like, um . . ."

"Family?" Zora suggested.

Mark was almost startled by the word, but nodded reflexively because it was precisely what he hadn't been willing to say out loud.

There was a half moment of silence and then Zora said, "And thank _you_."

"For what?"

"Hah," she smiled, "you know, May and I used to worry about Milton, rattling around all by himself in that big house, just Sarah to look after him, and she was getting on; we all knew it."

"He wasn't looking for family," Mark said. "He still isn't."

"Well, he's just silly about those sorts of things and, besides, sometimes family is what happens when you aren't looking." She gazed off over the taffrail toward the wake, making a narrow 'v' that stretched out nearly to the horizon. "And," she added, in a quieter tone, "I suppose you can't lose what you won't admit to having. He was hurt very badly when he lost Nancy and Tom." She looked up at him thoughtfully. "I'd imagine you'd understand that."

"Yeah," Mark met her eyes briefly and then looked seaward again, "I suppose . . . though maybe when it happens to you when you're young, you just figure it for the way things are—the way they're _supposed_ to be—for you, anyway."

"That you'd done something to deserve it?" Zora asked, disbelief in her tone. "I suppose children do think like that. You did finally realize you hadn't done anything wrong?"

"Oh," Mark laughed, "I did plenty _wrong_, Aunt Zora." He shook his head, then turned it to the side to look at her again, still smiling. "But that part, no . . . I didn't make that happen." His smile faded a little. "I know that now, at least in my head."

"Well," Zora nodded her approval, "that's a start. The rest will follow along eventually."

They stood there, side-by-side at the rail, silently looking aft for a few moments, then Zora finally sighed. "If I can't find _you_ a nice girl, maybe someone for Milton—"

"The librarian is too young," Mark said with quick certainty. "Anyway," he leaned over just a bit, "I've already got someone lined up."

Zora looked at him with sharp disbelief.

"Oh, you think you've got the market cornered, huh?" he said smugly. "Nope."

Disbelief was transmuted into intense curiosity, and she cast an inquiring look around.

"Uh-uh," Mark shook his head. "She's not here yet. Tomorrow, San Rio. You'll like her. She helped me bust him out of jail once."

"An old flame?" Zora chuckled delightedly. "How _nice_, wait'll I tell May—"

Mark looked nervous again. "But not a word to him. Seriously. Both of you, okay? It's a surprise. And she's not really a flame. More like an ember."

"Not a word," Zora repeated in a hushed voice. "Oh, my . . . _embers_."

00000

They wandered back round to the port side, then up one level to the sun deck, where the chairs were neatly arranged in rows and mostly occupied. May and the judge had found places, a little off to the side, in a section made less popular by the early-afternoon shadow under the funnel. May was immersed in the final few pages of her book. Hardcastle had his open, face down, rising and falling slowly on his chest in time with a rumbling snore.

"Waddaya think," Mark said quietly, "should we wake him? Don't want him to sleep through Gettysburg."

"Shh," May said, "it'll still be there when he wakes up. And I'm not quite done." She turned another page without looking up.

"You know, it won't end differently this time," Mark pointed out.

"No, but I _do_ like it when the culprit gets his come-uppance."

Zora had already lowered herself into a chair and put her feet up. She patted the one next to her.

"No," Mark said, taking a quick look down at his watch. "I think I'll wander around a little more." He gave Zora a stern look. "And remember what I said."

"What he said about what?" May asked, still not looking up.

"I'll tell you later, dear."

00000

Mark glanced down once more at his watch as he waited for the elevator. He had made up his mind while he'd been talking to Zora. He wasn't entirely sure that maybe she hadn't made it up for him. At least she'd made it easier.

He'd also figured something else out, in the course of the morning. He stopped back at the cabin to confirm his impressions, taking the day's program out and giving it a more careful study.

It was just as he'd concluded—based, he supposed, on the almost subliminal impressions he'd gotten walking by the Nautilus Room the evening before. That was the smaller of the two cabarets, and Sonny was by no means the headliner. He was a pinch-hitter at best, alternating between two venues—they also had him handling the off-hours entertainment in the bar: "Tunes by request in the Barracuda Lounge by songster Sonny Daye, 2-5 p.m." This was several steps lower than a second-rate club in Atlantic City.

Mark was surprised that, in the face of everything that had happened, seeing Sonny's decline in fortune still pained him. Maybe he ought to just avoid him; it wouldn't be as hard as he'd first thought. Still, he, or Zora, had made up his mind.

He closed the program, stood up, and headed for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

The Barracuda wasn't seedy, though there was an air of resignation to the place. It was as though everyone there would have preferred to be somewhere other than on a ship, cruising the Caribbean, and this was the best arrangement they could come up with.

With no windows, only the dim artificial lighting of a cocktail joint, there was no way of telling whether it was two in the afternoon, or the middle of the night. It looked like some of the denizens had lost track already, less than a day into the trip.

The shadowy corners and the hazy pall of cigarette smoke suited McCormick fine. He didn't mind observing unobserved for a while. He didn't even sit down, just slipped in and found a place near the back.

The pianist was playing a medley of the kind of songs that occupy the backrooms of memory—familiar, but with the titles just out of reach. He was nearly middle-aged, and had probably had at least ten years to come to grips with the notion that he was never going to be more than what he was now—the guy who played accompaniment for a second-rate lounge singer.

Mark caught him sneaking a not-quite surreptitious glance at his watch, during a one-handed arpeggio. It was well past two. A moment later a voice from nowhere in particular invited the audience to welcome—straight from the Las Vegas strip (Mark noticed the exact details were left to the imagination)—Mr. Sonny Daye. There was a little distracted and dutiful clapping.

A moment later Sonny stepped out from somewhere in the shadows between the piano and the bar, no drum roll this time. He was smiling; a quick nod spared for the pianist, who barely seemed to shrug back, but smoothly segued into new set of chords. Sonny took it in stride and bounded off into an upbeat rendition of "Let's Get Away from It All"—thematically appropriate, Mark supposed, if anyone in the room had been paying more than passing attention.

After that came a little light patter, the mention of a few potential hometowns, some self-deprecating humor, and then he opened up the floor to requests. None were immediately forthcoming, and McCormick dwelled only briefly on the notion of throwing out "Call Me Irresponsible", but, no, he had no desire to start this thing off on a hostile note.

Someone finally asked for "Autumn Leaves" and Mark watched a look pass between Sonny and the guy at the piano, as though they had both written off the afternoon as a slow downward spiral into the most banal of the standards. Still, they trotted it out in an entirely professional manner, and after that the requests, if not enthusiastic, were at least steady and polite.

Mark figured the first set for forty-five minutes, and when nearly that much time had elapsed, he maneuvered himself around the outer edge of the room, to a point of interception near where he'd seen the man emerge at the start. Right on the hour Sonny shut down the operation, promising he'd be back in fifteen minutes. There were no pressing demands for "just one more", only the tinkling of ice and the low-level murmur of conversation.

The piano player was up first, and brushed by Mark without a glance. Sonny, eyes down, was only a few steps behind, and might have passed unseeing, too, if Mark hadn't interrupted his stride with a softly-uttered, "Hey".

Sonny's head jerked up, and Mark could have sworn for a split-second there was more fear than surprise there. But that subsided almost as fast as the man's eyes focused on him.

"Hey, kid, how's it been?" The smile was there, the same one he'd used on stage, when taking the request for 'Que Sera, Sera' a few minutes ago. It was as though they saw each other on a regular basis, not even a moment of puzzlement, no questions about how he'd come to be here or why.

It was Mark's turn to be confused, though that only lasted long enough for him to realize someone else must have beaten him to the punch. He smiled. "You ran into Hardcastle already, huh?"

"Ah," Sonny's brow furrowed, "guess you could say that. More like he ran into me," he said speculatively. "Congratulations," he added, after a brief pause. He looked a little nervous as he fumbled forward. "I mean the graduation. I woulda been there if I'd known."

"It's all right," Mark said, waving that away. "It doesn't matter." To his astonishment, it came out quite naturally.

"He said you were up there in the top of the class." Sonny cocked his head, as if he hadn't been sure if he'd been having his leg pulled or not. Mark said nothing, not even a nodding acquiescence. Sonny continued on, suddenly hearty, "Well, how do ya like that, a mouthpiece in the family." If he had any awareness of the incongruity of what he'd just said, he didn't show it.

"Listen kid," he plowed ahead, oblivious to the younger man's silence, "if there's anything you need while you're aboard, just come to me . . . hell, all you have to do is mention my name."

Mark had let his gaze wander over the half-empty room as he'd listened to Sonny's other song and dance. He brought his eyes back to the man in front of him, who was obviously waiting for him to reply.

"It's okay, Sonny," he said, with a slow smile. "Got everything I need."

He then frowned lightly, thinking that might have come across as more than just a polite and casual refusal. But there was no change in Sonny's expression, just a fidget, as though with this brief exchange they'd already nearly exhausted their points of mutual interest.

Mark thought about this, that maybe there'd been a certain amount of subconscious strategy on his own part, putting this meeting in the middle of Sonny's afternoon shift. He dredged up another smile. He'd make some vague invitation to meet again before the trip was over, which they could both ignore, and that would be that.

"Maybe dinner?"

"Well, you know—"

_Here it comes, pretty much as expected_.

"—like I told the judge, the night after tomorrow's best for me."

Mark realized he was standing there with his mouth open. He closed it, forged another smile and said, not too stiffly, "That's great."

"And you should come on down and see the show . . . the _evening_ one." He gave the Barracuda Lounge a dismissive glance over his shoulder. "Got a nice band and everything."

McCormick just nodded—nothing provable contractually in a court of law. It occurred to him that he really preferred Sonny to be consistent. His rare bouts of responsibility made the evasions that inevitably followed harder to bear. But onboard a ship it wasn't like the guy had anywhere to run off to; this ought to be a low-risk venture.

The pianist was back, giving them a disinterested look. Mark listened to Sonny launch into an effusive introduction ("My _son,_ Mark, he's a lawyer in LA.") and the piano player, whose name was Nate, came up with a polite but bored nod as he eased by. Then it was definitely time to leave.

He said good-by, avoiding both a handshake, which would have been strange, and a hug, which would have been stranger still. It was as he stepped away that he saw the look on Sonny's face change, slipping back to the same nervous expression that Mark had first noticed as he'd greeted him.

This time the man's eyes were directed past him. Mark turned and instinctively scanned the room—someone in the doorway, a new arrival, heavy-set, middle-aged, scowling slightly, and the scowl was definitely directional. He looked vaguely familiar; Mark thought it might take a moment to place him, but anybody who worried Sonny most likely had either a badge or a record.

The guy moved into the room, and took a table toward the back, sitting down alongside an older man with a salt and pepper beard—definitely not muscle, more like an accountant.

Mark looked back over his shoulder at Sonny again, still assessing. _Concern, yes, maybe fear, but not blind panic._

"You okay?" he asked casually.

Sonny broke off his gaze and managed a bobbing nod and a half-smile. "Yeah, fine. No problems, kid."

Mark gave him a long, hard stare, as he pondered the world of coincidences, then he jerked his thumb back—a small, covered gesture. "That guy, the one who just sat down," he asked quietly, "his name wouldn't be Harry Ruby by any chance, would it?"

Sonny's startlement answered more questions than Mark had asked. McCormick sighed.

"Yeah, well," Sonny said almost defensively, "your old man knows a lot of guys."

Mark shook his head. "_Yeah_, but this one's a mobster. You owe him?" It occurred to him that he should have jumped right to the more important question, which was "How much?"

"Some," Sonny said evasively. "Not so much that it's gonna be a problem."

Mark decided to take that at face value, if for no other reason than no one in their right mind would lend Sonny enough money to make it worthwhile to pursue him. Most likely Mr. Ruby was living in the same small world of coincidence that was plaguing McCormick right now.

Maybe he'd seen Sonny's name in the program and decided to pay one of his long-term customers a little visit, but he was hardly likely to take any drastic measures on board a cruise ship. Consoled by this reasoning, Mark said good-bye again. Sonny didn't seem particularly eager to prolong the visit—more reassurance.

He walked casually toward the door, passing close by the now-seated loan shark, who shifted his narrow gaze temporarily. McCormick felt himself assessed and dismissed. He heard the first few bars of "High Hopes" and Sonny jumping in at the end of the eighth bar like a man without a care in the world, and somehow Mark was absolutely certain it wasn't true.

He wandered back to the cabin, unlocking the door and stepping inside. He was relieved to find the judge still out. He hadn't felt quite ready to rejoin the Hardcastles yet. All three of them were uncannily good at reading him and he didn't want to try to explain something he hadn't quite figured out himself.

He supposed the judge would say "Blood's blood, you don't stop worrying about somebody you're related to just because he's a jerk." After all, he'd had sixty or more years of practicing patience with his own wayward brother, Gerald.

Mark went out onto the balcony, briefly shielding his eyes as he emerged into the sunlight. It seemed odd, as though no time at all had passed in the real world, or maybe that this moving along steadily through open water had a timeless quality. He leaned his elbows on the rail. He listened to the occasional sounds of laughter drifting down from the decks above. It seemed distant.

Distraction. He felt a little guilty tickle down his spine as he turned back toward the room and stepped over to the dresser, edging the first drawer open in a way that suggested he didn't want to leave prints. _Nonsense_, _it's not locked up; it's not even hidden. Not exactly. Not very __well__, at any rate._

And besides, he figured, why the hell would somebody write something down and leave it lying around, unless they were hoping somebody else would read it?

This last one was the best argument yet, and sufficed for getting the drawer open and the manuscript into his hands. He sat down in the chair at the desk, close enough that he could quickly hide the evidence if he were surprised in the act.

The protagonist, he was relieved to find, was neither a retired jurist nor an ex-con, but, of all the unlikely things, a writer. Made sense, though, because the victim was a publisher, who died politely off-stage. The body was discovered on page twenty-four, in a swimming pool.

Mark frowned. It sounded awfully familiar. He skimmed forward a few more pages—still no ex-judges, doubting or otherwise, but there was an impatient police lieutenant, a bottle of nitroglycerin, and a whole slew of suspects that he didn't recognize.

_It's a damn cozy._ He was somewhat relieved, because the real case of the publisher, the swimming pool and the bottle of nitroglycerin had been anything _but_ cozy. He'd wound up dangling from a balcony, with a hit man aiming for his head. It was only thanks to Hardcastle's timely intervention with a .45, that he hadn't wound up on the list of victims.

But a _cozy_? He shook his head in disbelief, though he supposed it wasn't necessary to know what they were called in order to write one. He'd never heard the term himself until a girl he dated briefly, right after he'd been released from Quentin, had used it in reference to a paperback she'd found on the floor next to his bed—his parting act of criminal behavior, he'd still had three chapters to go when he'd been paroled, and he hadn't returned it to the South Block library cart.

He frowned; he read some more—tightly plotted with a good eye for detail and the quirky character. He finally closed it and carefully replaced it in the drawer. He was still sitting there, contemplating how little a person really can know about someone else, when he heard the key in the lock and the doorknob turning. He nudged the drawer closed quietly with his knee and pulled the program over in front of him on the desktop.

The guy who didn't know what a cozy was, stepped in with his Civil War tome and a copy of _The Riders of the Purple Sage_ tucked under his arm. He gave McCormick a studied but unsuspicious look.

"Wondered where you went off to," he said as he put the books down on the nightstand and checked his watch. "May and Zora decided to take in the lecture on cyanide."

"That sounds . . . um—"

"Interesting?"

"I dunno, maybe I was looking for a different word." Mark frowned.

"Well, I took a pass on it." The judge leaned over a little toward the mirror, running his fingers through what was left of his hair and sighing.

"No," Mark said. "Can't be."

"'Can't be' what?"

"Can't be thallium; you'd be dead by now," he said simply.

Hardcastle harrumphed. "You never know. There's plenty of people out there with grudges."

"And besides," Mark added with a grin, "we eat all the same stuff, and look at _my_ hair."

"That's 'cause you started out with too much." Hardcastle jerked his chin toward the bathroom. "I've seen what you leave in the sink. It'll be just about normal by the time you wind up on a slab. Anyway," he turned away from the mirror, "I was supposed to come down here and make sure you weren't moping. Cheer you up some."

"Good job. You're not going to anymore of those lectures, I hope."

"Not if I can help it." One more quick sideward glance at the mirror and a shake of the head. Then he frowned and looked at McCormick once more. "So what _were_ you up to?"

Mark jumped lightly over his most recent activity and decided to volunteer what the judge probably already suspected.

"Ran into Sonny."

Hardcastle accepted this slightly revisionist version with no more than a nod. But the silence that followed was a very effective interrogation technique, or maybe, Mark thought, he'd intended to tell him all along.

"I dunno," he continued on abruptly, "I think he's in some kind of trouble."

The judge avoided saying 'What else is new?' but it was perched there, hovering over his head in an almost-visible thought bubble.

"Okay," Mark conceded, "yeah, it's _Sonny,_ but, first, this is a really crappy gig—it has a kinda 'I gotta leave town _now_' feel to it, and, second, that guy Ruby was hanging around down there. You think he's a big Sinatra fan?"

"Probably . . . in which case Sonny really _is_ in trouble," Hardcastle added dryly, but it was clear that his attention had been caught. "Did you ask him how much he was into Harry's pocket for?"

"He wouldn't say . . . or maybe I didn't want to know. I'm not sure. But he said it wasn't going to be a problem."

"Well," the judge pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ruby'd have to be crazy to try something on the boat. So as long as Sonny stays aboard in San Rio and Bermuda, he should be okay."

"And then what?"

"I'll talk to him."

"Sonny or Harry?" McCormick asked.

"Both, if I need to."

Mark looked concerned. "This sure as hell isn't _your_ problem."

Hardcastle looked at him blankly for a moment and then finally said, "Is it yours?"

"No," Mark shot back, a little too fast to be honest. "Okay," he sighed a second later, "maybe . . . yeah."

He got a shrug from the judge, as if that'd settled it, and then he said, "I know some guys in Miami; one of 'em's a prosecutor—the other's with the FBI. See, I do know a _few_ people who aren't in the mob," he added archly. "So, if Sonny's willing, and Ruby tries anything, we can bring some heat down on him."

00000

The Aunts returned, cheerfully well-informed about the perils and availability of potassium cyanide and very much looking forward to dinner. Mark passed the silverware practical with flying colors and everyone very politely ignored the still-empty seat.

As the meal drew to a close, and they lingered over coffee and dessert, Zora said, "We ran into Mr. Daye this afternoon, on our way to the lecture."

Mark froze in mid-forkful, lowering the uneaten bite back down to the plate as he fixed Zora, and then May, with a worriedly inquiring look.

"Oh, none of that, now," Zora smiled and shook her head. "We were perfectly civil, weren't we, May?"

"Absolutely," May agreed.

Mark winced. With the Aunts, civility was very nearly as effective as a martial art.

"Is he okay?" he asked, leaving it up in the air as to whether he meant, 'Did he meet with your approval?' or 'Did he survive?'

He got an equally vague nod from Zora, who then added, "He asked if we would be stopping by for his performance tonight."

Hardcastle jumped in. "We're docking in San Rio pretty early tomorrow. Busy day."

Zora glanced down, lifting her fob watch. "It's not even eight p.m., Milton. That hasn't been past your bedtime since you were four years old."

McCormick had been sitting for a moment in silent thought. "I dunno if I want to," he said very directly, before the judge could say anything else. Then he cocked his head and looked at the two women. "Didn't you say I should maybe just ignore him?"

May reached over and gave his hand a pat. "Certainly, dear. Nobody'd blame you. _You_ shouldn't feel obligated. Zora and I will go."

This had the feel of a scouting mission. There was even an element of eagerness, and an air of noble resolution—volunteers for the French Resistance, the risk be damned. Mark tried to keep the worried expression off his face but a quick glance at the judge confirmed that he was not alone in his impression.

Hardcastle was right, McCormick had suddenly decided; you never really can stop worrying about people you're related to.

"You know," he said with sudden blitheness, "I've only seen him perform once, and I was kinda distracted then. Maybe I _should_ catch his act."

00000

They trooped down to the Nautilus Room, some more eager than others. They were a few minutes early. There was no difficulty getting a table in front, where the Aunts wished to be, and placing an order for two mint juleps and two beers. From the moment they entered the room, Mark realized that Hardcastle was distracted—or, rather, _focused_—and it only took a few seconds to calculate the trajectory.

Harry Ruby had a back table. He was alone this time, with an empty seat alongside him. He appeared to be nursing a beer and waiting for something—the performance, maybe, though it seemed unlikely. The rest of the audience was mostly in two and fours, with a few isolated customers already half in the bag—most likely holdovers from the earlier show, too weary or too comfortable to get up and move elsewhere.

Off to their right, and only a couple rows behind, was a gaggle of young women, mostly entertaining themselves—quick, light laughter. Zora waved and one of them nodded in return. Mark recognized the librarian from Topeka who'd been singled out for his attention that afternoon. The woman smiled in their direction, and McCormick smiled back as non-specifically as possible.

_Small boat._

He noticed that among their front row choices, Hardcastle had steered them toward the far end, and taken the left-most seat for himself, a position from which he could still observe Ruby out of the corner of his eye. Mark settled for the other end, bracketing the Aunts. It put him within an arm's reach of the dais where a few of the band guys were already fussing with their instruments.

The rest of the band members arrived a few at a time, probably assembled from other entertainment duties. The piano-player from the Barracuda was there as well. The lights dimmed before the room had filled. Mark heard the unseen announcer again, welcoming them to a night of show-stoppers, excitement, and romance. Then there was the drum-roll, a perfunctory snap on the cymbal, and Sonny stepped out into the spotlight. Mark was close enough to see the fatigue on the man's face.

_He's been doing this for at least thirty years. How many times has he heard that damn drum-roll?_

Mark doubted that he could see the audience from his side of the spotlight, even those in the front row, though the man's eyes seemed to be searching for something none-the-less. Then he was off into a brassed-up version of 'Fly Me to the Moon'. After that came a half-a dozen other up-tempo tunes, interspersed with banter and the kind of stale jokes whose punch lines that had to be underlined by the drummer.

The audience was mostly cooperative tonight, well-fed and relaxed. There was one heckler, a slightly-sodden guy who insisted on hearing 'Louie, Louie'. Sonny handled him with the obvious experience of a seasoned target and eventually the man was lured out by one of the servers, probably with the promise of free drinks at another location.

Mark thought about the first time he'd sat through Sonny's show, the weird mixture of unsettled anger and unrequited hope. There was none of that now; he'd taken the cure. All that remained was cautious, distant curiosity.

He looked over at Hardcastle, wondering what he had thought, being dragged clear across the country, five years ago almost to the day, and sat down to listen to . . . _nothing special._ _He must have had an inkling, the way you were carrying on about it—that stupid, __stupid__ stunt at the records building._

But it was a matter of some astonishment to Mark, even now, that Hardcastle had kept his mouth shut—well, mostly shut. He'd gotten on a plane and gone, with no better reason than he'd been asked to.

This time the man's attention was clearly not on the music. He was still casting less than overt glances toward the back of the room, though little could be seen out past the reach of the stage lights.

00000

The problem was, the most interesting thing in the room was definitely not on the stage. The judge dragged his eyes forward one more time, catching a glance from McCormick and feeling a twinge of guilt. _We're on vacation_, he reminded himself. He gave Sonny's performance his almost-undivided attention for perhaps ten seconds—he couldn't help it, he found the guy annoying, even as lounge-lizards went, nothing personal.

_Oh, but it is._

_Maybe . . . well, probably._

He'd made up his mind a while back—when he'd first met Sonny in Atlantic City—that he'd do absolutely nothing to interfere between him and Mark. Then, slowly, he'd realized that there wasn't going to be anything not to interfere _with_—and that had annoyed him more than anything else.

He cast another sideward glance at McCormick, who was now watching the show with every appearance of non-concern. It was a studied nonchalance that was a better performance than what was happening on stage. He was pretty sure the kid had noticed who was in the back of the room, too. What were the odds that someone would want to take in Sonny's act twice in one day?

_Now there's a long shot_.

There was a quiet vamp, just the piano—"Strangers in the Night". Zora had turned slightly and was whispering something in May's ear. Both of them had been listening very intently with entirely reserved expressions.

The judge didn't know much about the playing fields of Eton, but those of the Ladies' Guild of Worden tended to produce some pretty stern stuff. Hardcastle sincerely hoped, for Sonny's sake, that the man intended to behave. Maybe inviting him to dinner had been wildly optimistic. Maybe he'd been hoping for a polite refusal.

One more quick look toward the back—Ruby was sitting by himself still, not looking particularly dangerous, though he most certainly was. And the trick on that front, the judge decided, would be getting everyone back to Miami without stirring any curiosity in May and Zora. Hardcastle turned his face forward again.

_Vacation._ He risked a long, quiet sigh.

00000

Sonny bowed his thanks to the audience at the end of "Just One of Those Things", then stepped over and spoke to the drummer in an undertone.

"Folks," he said, standing in the center of the spotlight again, "tonight I've got a couple of guests in the audience that I'd like to introduce. First, two ladies who are very special – Aunt May and Aunt Zora." He gestured theatrically to the front row and the drummer punctuated his move with a clang on the cymbal.

Zora and May waved graciously to the polite applause, while the judge, noticing McCormick's discomfiture, covered his mouth with his hand. "Get ready; you're next," he mouthed across the tiny table.

"Next, someone I'm very proud of and very pleased to introduce." Sonny beamed at Mark. "Just graduated from law school at the top of his class – my son, Mark!"

McCormick half-stood uncomfortably as the cymbal clashed again, nodded in the general direction of the back of the room and hastily sat back down.

Hardcastle applauded, grinning maliciously, until Sonny waved for silence.

"And a real special guest, a true celebrity. A real-life crime fighter."

The judge cursed under his breath and squinted disapprovingly at the Aunts' giggles. "Shut up, dammit," he whispered at Mark's sudden amusement.

"Hey, I didn't say anything," McCormick whispered back.

"Someone who's had a great impact on my family." Sonny strode to the very front of the stage. "A guy I'm proud to call a friend. Folks, Judge Milton C. _Hardcastle_!"

The judge lifted himself out of his chair a fraction at the thunder of the drum roll and grimaced at the cascade of cymbal clangs. He bared his teeth at Sonny in what might charitably have been called a smile, then, as Sonny waved at him gleefully, ground out, "I'll get you for this some day."

As Sonny bounced enthusiastically into "My Kind of Town," May patted the judge's clenched hand. "Milton, that was very nice of him."

"Yes, indeed. I must say," Zora added thoughtfully, "I didn't expect it of him." She looked at her sister and nodded significantly. "More research is indicated, I believe."

May nodded back. "Absolutely."

00000

The last song drew to a close, and Sonny gave the band its due, with a special nod to Nate at the piano—they all looked eager to call it a night. A round of applause followed, one notch higher than mechanical. May and Zora clapped politely and even Hardcastle put some effort into it. Sonny took his bow—with a wink and quick nod in their direction—and departed. The lights came up. Mark sat there blinking for a moment.

Everyone else was getting to their feet. Zora looked at him with a little concern.

"Well," she said with a calm smile, "he's not _too_ bad."

"I suppose I should go back there and . . ." Mark frowned. He wasn't sure what came after that part.

May patted his shoulder and said, "We can wait for you if you'd like."

"Oh, no, might be a few minutes. You go on." He checked his watch. "Getting kinda late. We'll be docking early tomorrow."

Hardcastle gave him a quick once over and then said, "See you in a bit," firmly shepherding the ladies toward the door.

He was on his feet, hands in his pockets, watching them depart. The room was nearly empty, with only a small crowd near the door. He supposed under other circumstances he would interpret the judge's willing departure as intent to observe Ruby closer at hand, but with May and Zora along as chaperones, he doubted Hardcastle would try anything.

He looked over his shoulder at the now-darkened stage. A stagehand had arrived to straighten up and was half-heartedly pushing music stands to one side. Mark stepped over, one foot on the dais. The guy looked up at him, tired, mildly bored.

"Sonny Daye," Mark inquired politely, "his dressing room?"

The guy stared at him blankly, as if the name wasn't registering straight off. Then came a grunted "oh'" as he apparently remembered who'd been performing that night. He hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. "Dressing room's are all on the right. I think he's got the second one." Then a frown. "They don't let passengers back there, though."

Mark had been half expecting that. The next part, where he pulled out the line "He's my dad,'"sounded flat and false, but the guy he was telling it to either didn't care, or couldn't imagine why anyone would lie about such a thing. He shrugged as Mark stepped up on the stage and moved past him into the right wing.

There was a door which led out to a narrow passageway. Everything past this point was metal-surfaced, industrial gray, and lit with fluorescent lights. The doorways on either side were mostly open, with performers going in and out, easing past each otyher in the tight space. There was a sense of temporary occupancy, no names on the doors. Mark knocked on the second one and heard a "yeah," from inside. Not Sonny's voice.

He answered with a quick "sorry" as the door barely opened. It was Nate. The pianist gave him a frown through the crack, with a hint of puzzled surprise. This was followed by apparent recognition, and a quick jerk of his chin in the direction of the next door down.

"In here." Sonny was already at his own door. Mark stepped in after him. A small desk, a mirror. The quarters were too close to permit much privacy; voices could be heard from the other rooms. Sonny had apparently been in mid-removal of his stage makeup.

"How'd you like the show? Brought the ladies, eh?"

Maybe a slightly worried tenor to that last statement; Mark smiled at that. "They said you invited them." He shrugged casually. "I think maybe they wanted to check you out a bit."

"Well, hey, got a lot of older women in my fan club." Sonny grinned. It only held briefly. "How'd _they_ like it?"

"Hard to say," Mark let that one sit for a moment, then added, "I saw you had another fan in the back row."

Sonny blanched, a contrast to what was left of his artificial color.

Mark shrugged again. "If you're in trouble—"

"I told'ja, kid, I know a lot of guys."

"All right," Mark shook his head once, sharply, in disbelief. "Have it your way. Hardcastle says you'll probably be okay if you stay on board in San Rio and Bermuda."

"I can take care of myself," Sonny blustered.

"Yeah," Mark waved that away, "sure. Yourself. Definitely." He felt the whole conversation taking a slow slide into the dumpster and tried to salvage something. "You're really coming to dinner with us day after tomorrow?"

"I said I would."

Mark gave that a thoughtful nod. "You know, there's gonna be someone else there, I mean, besides us and Hardcastle's aunts. A lady." He paused for a moment, trying to figure out a way to put it. He settled for blunt. "Don't hit on her, okay?"

He saw Sonny's eyebrows go up in momentary speculation. "Worried about a little competition from your old man?"

There was no evading the dumpster, he'd decided, and no such thing as blunt enough, when it came to Sonny.

"Just don't," he said flatly. "It'd be embarrassing."

Sonny opened his mouth, and then shut it without having said anything. Mark let his eyes wander over the too-tight confines of the dressing room, and finally back to the man himself.

"And if you change your mind about the other thing, we're here. Hardcastle knows a lot of people, too."

Sonny said nothing. Mark said goodnight and ducked back out into the hallway. He figured the cabaret was probably darkened and locked by now, and he turned toward the door at the opposite end of the passage. Most of the other musicians had departed, heading off to their late-night assignments or to bed. He stepped into the plushly-decorated public hallway, and closed the door that said "Staff Only" behind him.

And that was when he noticed her, standing only a short way down, looking as if she was waiting for someone—the librarian from Topeka. She'd obviously recognized him as well, though they hadn't been introduced—at least not to each other.

"Ah . . ." he said, floundering for her name and not even sure if he was supposed to know it.

"You're with May and Zora," she said. There seemed to be an edge of surprised nervousness to her; clearly she hadn't been standing around expecting _him_.

"Ah . . . yeah." Mark looked briefly over his shoulder at the closed door, wondering just who she _had_ been waiting for. "They went back to their cabin," he added, though it was pretty clear that the young woman hadn't been waiting for the Aunts, either.

"That's your dad in there, the guy who was performing?"

It was Mark's turn to be slightly flustered. "Yeah." He frowned. "I guess you could say that."

The woman nodded once, as though she grasped the possibilities. Then a half-beat of silence passed before she added, "I'm sorry. Zora must've mentioned your name but—"

"McCormick, Mark."

"Mary Kolpeckney." She stuck a hand out, old-fashionedly proper. "Zora said you're a lawyer."

Mark nodded.

"Maybe you'd know the answer to this." She paused and blushed slightly. "I'm sorry. It's really rude, I suppose, to go and ask someone you just met a legal question."

"No, um, I mean, I don't mind. But I've only been a lawyer for about three months."

The woman stared past him at the door for a moment as though she were giving some thought to something, then she looked back at him sharply. "It's okay, just something I was wondering."

Mark waited patiently.

"If you think someone might be your father, but you don't have any proof, can you make them have a test, a blood test, I mean?"

It was a distinct, sinking feeling and Mark fought down an urge to glance over his shoulder again at the closed door. "Are we talking about adults here, not a mother with a small child?"

She nodded.

"What would be the point?" he asked quietly. "If you have to resort to legal force to get it done, is there any reason to do it?"

He got no reply but there was a certain amount of lip biting going on.

"Anyway, I'm not sure what the answer would be. For one thing, it's state law, so we'd have to know what state it was under the jurisdiction of, and I can tell you, just in general, that the courts don't usually compel someone to do something unless there's a good reason."

"But not knowing who—"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "Not unless there's an issue of child support. No power on earth can compel someone to behave like a parent much beyond forking over a check every month, and even that's pretty tough sometimes."

"That's really not an issue," she said. "I was always _provided_ for. Anyway, I'm twenty-eight; I have a job."

The sudden shift to a personal pronoun was not at all surprising. Mark kept his face flat and accepting.

"It's just . . ." He thought her lip was going to start bleeding if she kept this up. "I don't know," she finally said in apparent frustration, "sometimes I think it would be nice to have a name."

"You have one."

"A _real _one."

"Careful," Mark said kindly, "you could wind up with too many to pick from." Then he frowned again, pensively for a moment, before asking her, flat out, "How much of this did you discuss with Zora?"

She looked startled for a moment and then shook her head. "None of it. We just talked about my book . . . and Mr. Portly."

"Okay, well—"

"But she said you were awfully good at figuring things out. Mysteries."

"I _hate_ mysteries. The real life ones, at any rate."

"Well," she shrugged; a little liveliness had come back into her expression, "I suppose if you can't stand 'em you have to get pretty good at solving them."

Mark was still frowning. "Listen," he said, "about Zora and May—"

"They are just so sweet, aren't they?" Mary smiled.

"Well, yeah," Mark agreed, "but they kinda tend to get, well, _involved_ in things."

She was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

"What I mean is," Mark paused, not sure exactly how to put it, "see, they can be kind of relentless in the pursuit of justice, especially if they like you."

Mary nodded thoughtfully.

Mark studied her for a moment longer—ordinary features, a nice smile. He supposed she might be the type who routinely elicited brotherly protectiveness rather than any sense of attraction. Might just be a coincidence.

_But probably not._

"You waiting for somebody?" he finally asked with what he hoped sounded like detached and minimal interest.

She looked at him pensively, then at the door again. "No," she replied flatly, "I suppose not." She managed a small smile. "It was nice meeting you, finally. I'll probably see you around."

He watched her turn and walk away.

00000

The crowd thinned rapidly. Hardcastle had caught one quick glimpse of Ruby, walking away, in the apparent company of another man, salt and pepper hair, non-descript, and no one he was familiar with. He was suddenly aware that he'd fallen back, behind May and Zora, but they had paused, and were looking over at Ruby as well.

"Better get ourselves some sleep," he said briskly, to cover his sudden alarm. "Got a big day tomorrow."

Zora smiled sweetly. "Well, now, you and Mark can go gallivanting all over that island. May and I will probably stay aboard."

"We wouldn't want to get in the way," May added in a tone that implied there were some shore-leave hijinks that she'd just rather not know about.

"And we've got a seminar on asphyxiation to attend," Zora said breathlessly.

"But we can all meet for dinner," May said. "The ship will be sailing before then."

This agreed upon, they'd arrived at the Aunts' door and he bid them goodnight, heaving a sigh of relief that he'd managed not to be asked about the guy he'd been staring at. He had half a notion to take a turn on the promenade deck and see if he couldn't get lucky again, spotting Ruby. He'd sure as heck like to know who the second party in the hallway had been. But he thought he'd sort of half-promised McCormick he'd behave, and, anyway, he figured he ought to be around for moral support when the kid finally did get back from his meeting with Sonny.

He retreated to their cabin, and had been out on the balcony for just a few minutes when he heard the key in the lock. He turned around, hitching his elbow on the railing. McCormick was muttering almost inaudibly as he came in.

"You really shouldn't let him get to you like that," the judge commented.

Mark looked up sharply, then dropped the key on the nightstand and sat down on his bed. "Not Sonny this time," he muttered. "Well, not directly, anyway." He seemed to suppress a shiver. "I'll admit, though, it gives a whole new meaning to 'having a lot in common.'"

The judge let one eyebrow go up. McCormick related the story of his chance encounter in the hallway.

"Not necessarily Sonny she was looking for," Hardcastle said, trying not to let his own doubt color that semi-judicial opinion. "Lots of guys backstage there, and who's to say her question even had anything to do with what she was doing there? Maybe she took a liking to somebody in the band since she came on board. Gotta say, with this literary crowd, the gals outnumber the guys on this cruise."

"Yeah, if it weren't for the New Jersey contingent, we'd really have the odds stacked," Mark said dryly. "Anyway, you're right. Too weird a coincidence. That kind of thing doesn't happen in real life . . . much."

"Not hardly at all," Hardcastle seconded worriedly.

"Almost never," Mark said with a decisively confident nod, then, after a pause, "You suppose I'm gonna have to start asking to see a birth certificate before I go out for drinks with somebody?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"Mark, dear," said Aunt May demurely, "we know Milton has an errand or two to run in San Rio, and we wondered if you'd escort us to the beach this morning."

Zora chipped in, "Yes, we've decided this would be an excellent opportunity for a little Christmas shopping." She winked extravagantly and gestured with her chin at the judge.

Hardcastle looked up from the fishermen on the dock he'd been studying and asked, "Christmas shopping? In September?"

The Aunts nodded in unison. "Oh, yes," chirped May. "I haven't nearly finished yet."

Mark shrugged and smiled. "Sure. Be happy to. You ready to go now?"

"Oh, not quite. Milton, you go on ahead." Zora patted him on the shoulder. "Don't wait for us. We'll just go get our purses from our cabin; right, May?"

As the Aunts scurried off, the judge turned to McCormick. "You know they're up to something. You want me to stick around and help with 'em?"

"Nah. They probably just want my opinion on what color parrot shirt to get you," grinned Mark. "You go on ahead. If I don't catch up to you at the Records Building, we'll meet up at Aggie's."

"You sure?" Hardcastle looked at his watch with ill-disguised impatience. "Yeah, okay. See you later." He turned toward the gangplank, then turned back abruptly. "Hey, you take care of them, okay?"

McCormick sighed. "Ju-udge." He held up a palm as the other man started to speak. "Yeah, yeah. I know. We'll just have a little walk on the beach, buy some straw hats and I'll get them back in time for their lecture on asphyxiation."

00000

"It's very nice of you to escort us, Mark." Aunt May looked briefly at a stand of fluorescent-hued tropical shirts, then stared in concentration at the buildings ahead.

Zora added, "We appreciate it very much, dear. And we won't keep you long." She lowered her voice as May led them toward a nondescript brick building just behind a fruit stand. "I think it's time for a short rest. May's a little older than I am, you know, and she'd probably like to sit down for a bit."

"Four years," said May without turning. "And there's nothing wrong with my hearing."

Zora bit her lip to prevent a smile, then had to chuckle when May turned back to her with a mock scowl.

"We're here," said May, waving at the door of the brick building. She nodded at Mark to open the door for her.

The trio entered and Mark found himself following the Aunts into a well-lit, spartanly-furnished bar. The Aunts led the way to the mahogany counter and hoisted themselves carefully onto two stools fronting it.

As Mark joined them, May ordered crisply, "A San Rio Sling."

"Same here," said Zora. "and what would you like, Mark?"

McCormick scanned the brightly-festooned walls of the bar, then glanced at the bartender. "Local beer?"

"_Onda Blanca_," was the suggestion.

Mark nodded acceptance, then, as the bartender withdrew, asked the Aunts, "How did you hear about this place?"

"Oh, we did some research before the trip," answered Zora. "And Manny's Mañana Bar is specially famous for its San Rio Slings."

May chimed in, "We simply had to try one." She settled herself more comfortably on her barstool and cleared her throat. "Of course, it's a tad early in the day for cocktails, but we have the lecture on respiratory incapacitation at eleven--" she raised her eyebrows suggestively toward the bartender and Mark realized she didn't want him to think they were hardened criminals, "--and we simply _had _to talk with you about the _embers_."

"So, we thought we'd kill two birds--" Zora broke off at May's emphatic cough "--I mean, we thought we'd have our little talk here while Milton's running his errands."

The bartender put two enormous drinks, complete with tiny umbrellas and plastic parrots, in front of the Aunts, then placed a brimming glass of beer in front of McCormick. "_Salud_."

The Aunts lifted their glasses to each other, then to Mark. "_Salud_," they said, then each took a healthy sip.

"Oooh, this _is _good. The coconut milk really does make it special." Zora took another sip, then politely asked, "Is your beer good, dear?"

McCormick sampled it again, then nodded. "Look," he said, "about those embers. You've heard us talk about Aggie Wainwright and how we met her when we first came to San Rio?"

The Aunts nodded and sipped.

"Well, she came out to visit in California a couple of times and it seemed to me that she and the judge were . . . getting kinda serious about each other." Mark pushed his beer glass slightly to one side and rested his arm on the bar. "So when we knew we were going to stop here on the cruise, I gave Aggie a call to find out if she could meet us. You know, maybe spend the day together, give you a chance to get to know her a little."

"An excellent idea, Mark." May took the umbrella and parrot from her glass and carefully dried them on her cocktail napkin before placing them in her purse. "Souvenirs," she responded to McCormick's questioning look. "And is she? I thought that was one of Milton's 'errands'."

Mark grinned. "Better than that. She's joining the cruise and she may already be on the ship."

Zora clapped her hands in delight. "Wonderful! You are such a schemer, dear! We'll just finish our Slings, get your Cousin Becky a straw hat (you don't know her, dear, she moved to Knoxville six years ago), and we'll go straight back to the boat."

"Ship," said May emphatically. "You know the captain doesn't like it when you call it a boat, Zora."

00000

The judge had completed his business at the Records Building in much less time than he'd allowed and had gone straight to the Wainwright residence from there. Unfortunately, no one answered the doorbell.

"Come on, Aggie," he muttered after checking his watch for the third time. "The ship leaves in a few hours." He paced a few more minutes, then went down the hill to find a phone. After some complicated negotiations involving American quarters and San Rio pesos, he managed to call Aggie's number, only to get her answering machine.

"_Buenas dias_. I'm not home right now, but please leave me a message. _Gracias_. Oh, and if that's you, Milt, I'm already on the ship."

Hardcastle hung up the phone in disbelief, then growled, "McCormick."

00000

McCormick was keeping an eye on the gangplank while listening to Aggie and the Aunts get acquainted.

"I think it's kind of flattering, really," said Aggie, "that he's spending this much time waiting for me to show up."

May beamed at her. "Won't this be a wonderful surprise for Milton." She glanced at Zora and added, "At least now we know who the extra place at dinner is for."

"Yes. I'll admit I'm a little disappointed." Zora frowned just a tiny bit. "I was hoping for a real mystery to solve." She brightened. "But there's still time. And we haven't met Lex Portly yet, so there's plenty to look forward to."

Mark snorted. "Yeah, like yelling, cursing and general mayhem." He turned to face the deck table and waved a hand over his shoulder. "You realize he's not going to be very pleased with me for keeping this a big secret."

Aggie looked up at him. "I think I can handle Milt. And besides, he should be grateful that _one_ of you thought to check with me first instead of just showing up out of the blue." She extended a hand to McCormick. "Thank you, Mark. I'm so glad to be here." She released his hand and looked back at the Aunts, who were regarding her with pleased intensity. "I'm especially glad to have the chance to meet your aunts." She smiled at them. "I've heard so much about you both. Milt and Mark brag about you all the time."

"Oh, that's very nice of them," fluttered Aunt May. "But we'd much rather hear about you, Agatha."

"Yes, dear, all about you." Zora leaned forward. "Could we just ask--"

"Whoops!" said Mark. "There he is! Aunt May, Aunt Zora, time to scram." He extended a hand to May, who clasped it and pulled herself out of her chair.

"I still don't see why we have to skedaddle like this," she complained mildly. "Milton may be a tad irritated at first--"

Zora took her arm and tugged firmly. "Come along, May." She bent to reach her purse next to the table. "We want to leave them alone, dear," she hissed loudly.

Aggie hid a grin, while Mark grabbed the paper bag of souvenirs. He peeked hurriedly inside to make sure the little straw burro he'd bought as a Christmas surprise for the judge was inside.

"Come on, ladies. Aggie, dinner tonight. 'Bye!" He escorted the Aunts quickly around the nearest corner.

Zora came to a halt and waved May to her side. "We can see perfectly from here, May."

Aunt May and McCormick joined her just as the judge stumped sourly off the gangplank onto the ship.

"Yoohoo, Milt! Over here!" Aggie stood and waved a hand gleefully.

Hardcastle glowered at her and approached at a reluctant walk.

"Why, Milt Hardcastle," she scolded playfully, "you act like you're not happy to see me!" She reached out, grabbed his shoulders and planted a smacking kiss on his scowl.

"Rrrrr," he said.

Aggie folded her arms and waited.

"Where's McCormick?" he demanded. "And where's my aunts?" he added ungrammatically.

Aggie waited some more.

"Okay, okay," he conceded, shoulders drooping. "Aggie, I'm glad to see ya. Come here."

Around the corner, the Aunts sighed affectionately at the romantic scene. "I like her," whispered Zora.

"Me, too," May and Mark replied in unison.

The judge and Aggie pulled apart, arms still around each other, and moved to the deck rail. She rested her head on his shoulder as they looked at the colorful dock below. "If you have to be mad at somebody, Milt, it should be me."

He cocked his head at her quizzically. "Oh, yeah? How come?"

"Because I told Mark not to tell you he'd called me." She nestled a little closer. "I wanted to see if you'd call me yourself. You should've, you know. Surprises are fine for six-year-olds, but a woman wants time to prepare when her special guy is going to visit." She grinned up at him. "Grocery shopping, maybe some candles, a special perfume . . . not very romantic if you show up while I'm cleaning the bathroom."

"Yeah, well," the judge sighed. "I suppose you're right." He considered for a few moments. "I guess I just . . . I dunno . . . wanted to see your face when I showed up. See if you were really happy or just . . . _kinda _happy. You know?"

Aggie looked at him with patient long-suffering. "Milt, you _are _an idiot, aren't you?" She pulled him around to face her and twined her arms around his neck. "What do you think, am I _really _happy to see you?"

The Aunts both smiled contentedly, then Zora said, "Oh, May! The lecture!"

May looked up at Mark. "Could you escort us to the auditorium, dear?" She looked at Zora. "I do hope they address the hyoid bone."

"Yes," said Zora with a frown. "I've never really understood where that is."

00000

The first formal night of the cruise found McCormick waiting at the Aunts' stateroom, fingering his black tie nervously. The tuxedo had been his graduation gift from Gerald Hardcastle, who'd been ecstatic over picking four winners in a single day at Santa Anita. The tux fit perfectly, but Mark still felt a little silly. Idly, he flapped his hands and tried to waddle like a penguin.

Muffled giggling broke out behind him. "Mark, dear, you look wonderful," said Aunt May.

Aunt Zora held her hands out at her sides. "And so do we, don't you think?"

McCormick smiled at them sheepishly, then offered each an elbow. "I think you look beautiful. And I think I'm going to be the envy of every other guy on the boat."

"It's a ship, Mark." May, elegant in lavender brocade, corrected him gently as she took his right arm.

Zora, resplendent in raspberry satin, took his left arm. "Yes, we're bound to meet the captain, tonight, dear. Try not to call it a boat in front of him."

As they exited the elevator on the deck where the dining room was located, May transferred her tiny evening bag to her left hand and vigorously waved her right. "Mary!"

Mary Sue turned from the entrance to the dining room, where she'd been staring at something inside. "Oh, hello! Miss Hardcastle, Mrs. Harrison."

"Now, Mary," smiled Zora, "we agreed on first names since we know each other so well. Didn't we? It's Zora and May."

Aunt May nodded comfortably. "That's right. We may never have met in person before, but we've been friends for years. We rather expected to see you at the Blunt Instrument Demonstration this afternoon. Very interesting, and very informative."

"Have you met our nephew, Mark?" asked Zora significantly. "He's a lawyer," she added with pride.

"Yes, we did meet last night," Mary smiled at him shyly. "I think I was a bit lost, and Mark found me wandering around. We did talk a little . . . about things that are probably not very important." She looked at McCormick pleadingly.

McCormick gathered he was to keep their conversation private and nodded at her encouragingly. "I think I may've been a little bit lost myself." He stiffened suddenly in surprise. "I do _not _believe it."

"Ah, Mr. McCormick," a distinguished gentleman with slightly graying hair approached the little group and said urbanely, "what a pleasant surprise to find you here." He smiled at the petite blonde accompanying him. "My dear, may I present an old . . . acquaintance? Mark McCormick, this is my fiancée, Angelica Bradford."

Angelica smiled politely at Mark while he hurriedly introduced his aunts and Mary Kolpeckney. "And this is Arthur Farnell," he continued, "criminal mastermind and author." McCormick smiled wryly as Farnell bent over each lady's hand and murmured compliments.

"But this is so exciting," exclaimed Zora. "Are you really a criminal?"

Farnell grinned at her charmingly. "Formerly, dear lady. But now I've reformed and live a quiet life in San Rio." He cast a loving glance at Angelica. "I have better things to do now. A little writing, some charity work; I may even get into politics."

"I know who you are! Why, we even read your book!" May was searching her clutch for something. "Don't you remember, Zora? Oh, could we possibly have your autograph, Mr. Farnell? What a shame that you're not part of the lecture series." She finally found a pen and her souvenir napkin from lunch.

Zora looked at Farnell hopefully. "That would be fascinating. Dare we hope . . .?"

Farnell chuckled ruefully. "I'm afraid not. It would set a terrible example, wouldn't it? Don't you agree, Mr. McCormick?" He looked at Mark, then around the small foyer. "Where'd your friend go? Miss Kolpeckney?"

"I _don't believe _it!" Judge Hardcastle appeared, with a gold-silk-gowned Aggie on his arm. "Arthur Farnell! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Milton! _ Language_," said the scandalized Aunts.

00000

The judge grumbled as he picked at his salad. "I was just surprised, that's all. You didn't need to make a fuss." He took a forkful of lettuce and added, defensively, "Not like it's anything you never heard before, either."

Aggie diplomatically intervened. "Aunt May, is there something wrong with your salad?"

"Oh, no, dear, thank you for asking." May poked at an almond sliver. "I was just thinking the almonds were a trifle soggy, that's all. But delicious!" she hastened to add.

"They should've toasted them first," said Aggie sagely.

Both aunts gave her gratified smiles.

Mark swallowed a grin and his mouthful of beets and walnuts. "Wait 'til you've tasted the Aunts' cooking—there's nobody better!" he said proudly.

As the ladies began a spirited comparison of pecans and almonds, McCormick glared at the judge. "Knock it off," he hissed. "It's a cruise, for crying out loud. Make an effort and have a good time, okay?"

"It's just that it's starting to look like a reunion, that's all," Hardcastle hissed back. "Sonny, Harry Ruby, and now Artie Farnell. Seems like it's more than—" he broke off suddenly, aware of inquiring looks from the Aunts and Aggie.

"Who's Harry Ruby?" May inquired.

Aggie shook her head disparagingly. "One of Milt's crooks, no doubt. Or a policeman he's known for ages, or a prosecutor who disagreed with him." She picked up her glass of champagne and took a sip. "So what's the plan for after dinner? I know they have bingo and a dance floor and a card room."

Zora smiled at Phillip as he removed her salad plate. "May and I are going to attend a symposium. Lex Portly himself is supposed to be there, and he'll answer questions about his latest book!"

"A most ingenious plot," May nodded and smiled her thanks at Phillip. "I never suspected the real murderer until the next-to-last chapter!"

Hardcastle raised an eyebrow at McCormick. "You going to that?"

"Nah. I got a book to finish and I may hit the hay a little early tonight." Mark thought suddenly of the coincidence that the judge had nicknamed his Colt .45 Milly. _Maybe Millicent's his alter ego_, he thought. _Kind of like Bruce Wayne and Batman. _He smothered a snicker and turned to Aggie. "What about you and the judge?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I think I'd like to find a comfy chair, and an attentive waiter, and just relax. Maybe listen to a little music. Milt? That okay with you?"

The judge shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure. There must be somewhere on this boat we can find some good Dixieland."

00000

By default, Aggie and Hardcastle ended up in the Nautilus Room. Aggie professed an interest in hearing Mark's father and the judge was willing enough to go along with the idea, for a short while, at least. They found a small table near the stage and ordered Irish coffee, then settled back to wait for Sonny's entrance.

Just as the spotlight hit the stage and the piano began an introductory phrase, Harry Ruby sauntered in and took the same seat as the previous night. Hardcastle lowered his eyebrows and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Aggie noticed his pensiveness, and leaned over to whisper "What?" just as Sonny bounded onto the stage.

The judge shook his head and focused his attention on Sonny, snapping his fingers and beaming at the crowd as he belted out "Blame It on the Bossanova". _The guy's not really that bad_, he conceded. _Just not that good, either. _Movement from the corner of his eye attracted his attention, and he watched in mild surprise as Farnell and Angelica took a table just off the corner of the stage. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement from Ruby's corner and noticed, to his surprise, that Ruby was leaning forward and staring intently at Farnell's table. _Hmm. Birds of a feather?_

After two more numbers and a little snappy patter, Sonny raised his eyebrows at the judge, grinned and half-extended a hand.

Hardcastle glared at him fiercely and shook his head.

Sonny swept the hand on past the judge's table and pointed at the pianist. "Let's have a hand," he urged, "for Nate; the best pianist on the ship." As the small crowd applauded politely, he added, "Which is not saying that much."

The drummer hit a rim-shot and the audience laughed appreciatively. "How many of you," continued Sonny, "went on shore at San Rio?" A few hands went up in the crowd and all the members of the band joined in. Sonny chuckled. "Yeah, we all hit the beach there. Beautiful country, hey? And we picked up a couple of useful phrases. _Donde esta el licor? Donde estan las senoritas?"_

More laughter from the crowd. Sonny leaned toward Angelica, winked broadly and purred, _"Muchacha magnifica."_

Angelica put a hand on Farnell's arm and said clearly, "I'm sorry. I don't speak French."

Farnell patted her hand and gave Sonny a benign, tolerant look.

Still looking right at Angelica, Sonny began an up-tempo version of "I Get a Kick Out of You."

"How about a walk in the moonlight?" murmured Aggie.

"Now you're cookin'," the judge murmured back. He rose, pulled back her chair and they exited as quietly as possible. As they left, Hardcastle noticed yet another familiar face in the back of the lounge. _Oh, yeah. What's-her-name, Mary Something. _He shrugged and followed Aggie. _Woulda thought she'd be at that symposium with the Aunts._

00000

Mark finished _Outline for Murder_, yawned, stretched and realized the ship was moving from side to side a little more enthusiastically than before. _Maybe I should take one of those pills we brought. _He carefully returned the manuscript to its resting place, then glanced at the balcony door._ Fresh air, that would help._

He slid the door open and stepped out onto the tiny balcony and took a look around. The other balconies on that level seemed to be empty, but the stern of the ship was barely visible and there were a few couples there, enjoying the moonlight and the ocean breeze.

_Aw, isn't that cute_, he thought as he recognized one particular shadowed form. _Go on, put your arm around her, you dope! There, that's more like it._

After another minute, he realized he'd probably feel better if he wasn't watching the gleaming, undulating wake of the ship. _Where did we put those pills anyway?_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Zora tapped gently on the stateroom door just as the judge was about to open it. "Oh, Milton," she whispered. "Is Mark still asleep?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah. He took a sea-sick pill last night and I think they make you sleepy." He glanced back into the room, then tiptoed out and quietly closed the door. "Aunt May up?"

Zora spoke a trifle louder as they made their way to the elevator. "Oh, yes. She was up first today and went ahead to meet Aggie at the sunrise buffet. Although," she said thoughtfully, "I don't know why they call it that when the sun's been up for two hours now."

The judge chuckled and held the elevator door for his aunt. "Maybe it's because most people on a cruise consider eight A.M. too early to be up."

May and Aggie waved at the twosome from a window table as they selected their breakfast items.

"Waffles, Milt?" Aggie regarded him with obvious affection. "Not granola or whole wheat toast?"

"Nope. It would disappoint the cruise folks if people didn't overeat. Have you seen the amount of food they put out? And it's all day long!" He poured syrup over his first waffle and poised momentarily before digging in. "What's on the schedule today?"

May put down her orange juice and smiled at him. "There's a mystery trivia challenge at ten and then something they call 'Build-A-Mystery' at noon. I think we all form into teams and assemble a mystery from various clues we're given. You know, kind of a write-it-yourself mystery novel."

Hardcastle blinked and stopped chewing for an instant, then resumed and swallowed. "Sounds like fun. For _you_, I mean," he added quickly.

"Yes, we can win prizes," Zora said brightly. She smiled up at the steward who topped up her coffee. "Thank you, dear. What are your plans, Agatha? We'd be happy if you'd join us, but I know not everyone shares our interests, so maybe you and Milt . . ."

"Milt and I are going to walk around the deck," said Aggie firmly. "Several times." She looked at the judge consideringly. "Four times for each waffle, I think."

"Hmmph," he replied. "Maybe. Slowly."

Aunt May cocked her head to one side. "Do you suppose Mark will be up before ten, Milton? Zora and I can wait for him here, and leave a message if we miss him."

"That sounds like a plan. I think he's still catching up from all the late nights before exams. And then then those motion sickness pills make you sleepy, you know." The judge finished his bacon and started on his second waffle. "Good thing the ocean's calm this morning."

Aggie looked out at the oily swell and frowned. "It _is _calm, isn't it? I hope . . . oh, never mind. I'm about ready for that walk, Milt. Are you almost through overeating?"

00000

"Yoohoo, Mark! Over here!" Zora waved as McCormick entered the buffet and looked around.

May held up a hand for the steward to bring some fresh coffee as Mark collected a plate of toast for himself. "Is that all you're having, dear?" she asked in concern.

"'Morning, Aunt May. Aunt Zora." He seated himself and reached for his coffee. "Yeah, this'll hold me 'til lunch. It's almost ten and I'm just not that hungry right now."

Zora eyed him solicitously. "Are you feeling all right, Mark? We have some excellent home remedies if you're having problems with the ship's movement."

McCormick shook his head and sipped coffee. "No, I'm fine. It's just that there's _so much _food; I think I should pace myself. Thank you, though. Where's the judge and Aggie?"

"They're having a morning constitutional; what we used to call 'going on the strut'." May looked around conspiratorially. "I think they're serious about each other."

"I certainly _hope _so." Zora watched Mark anxiously to make sure he finished his toast. "I think she's a very nice person. Very bright and energetic and just right for Milton."

Mark pushed his plate away and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "Well, I agree, but we can't go shoving them together just because we think they make a good couple. It has to be _their _decision, okay?"

"Said the man who arranged for Agatha to join us," murmured Aunt May.

"Yeah, I know." McCormick smiled wryly. "But the rest has to be up to them, agreed?"

The Aunts nodded their consent, then May reached across the table to put a hand on Mark's arm. "Are you having a nice time, dear?"

Nonplussed for a moment, Mark stared at her blankly, then snorted. "Are you kidding? I'm sitting here with my favorite relatives, eating way too much food, looking out over a gorgeous blue ocean, with the final on Constitutional Law only a vague memory and you ask if I'm having a good time?" He shook his head in amusement.

Zora glanced at May, who nodded back at her, then said casually, "It's just that we thought you might want to . . . oh, I don't know . . . spend some time by the pool, meet some other young people . . . escort a young lady to lunch . . ."

McCormick grinned at his aunts. "Now, none of that. If the judge gets to handle _his _own personal life, then fair's fair. This is exactly where I want to be right now." He turned thoughtful suddenly. "Really. I'm _exactly _where I want to be right now. In every sense."

00000

An attractive young lady nodded at Hardcastle and Aggie in recognition on their third circuit of the upper deck.

"Good morning," called Aggie.

The judge nodded. "'Morning. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Angelica smiled at them. "Gorgeous," she agreed. "Far too nice a day to spend it doing something healthy. Come sit for a while." She waved to the deck chairs next to her. "Enjoy the view and talk to me. I haven't seen you for weeks, Aggie."

"Oh, that's right." Hardcastle saw that Aggie was comfortably disposed and then dropped into the seat beside hers. "You two know each other. Are you a native of San Rio, Miss . . . uh . . . ?"

"Bradford," she laughed. "But please call me Angelica. No, I've only been there a few months, but I love it. The people, the climate, the atmosphere. And, of course," she blushed faintly, "Arthur."

Aggie smiled at her. "Where is Arthur this morning? I haven't seen him."

Angelica dimpled charmingly. "He's at the barber. Can you believe it? He said he wants to look his best tonight. We've been invited to the Captain's table!"

"Ah, great. That's terrific." The judge made a real effort. "We'll see you there, I guess." He looked out over the waves and rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "So, you met Farnell – Arthur, I mean – when you moved to San Rio?"

"That's right. We met at the casino one night. I was trying to understand the rules for roulette and he was standing next to me and . . . well, it was just _Fate_, I guess." She sighed romantically.

"Yeah." Hardcastle smiled falsely. "Sounds like Fate to me."

Aggie kicked his foot when Angelica turned her head to the ocean. "Have you set a date yet? I saw the announcement in the paper, but can't remember hearing when it's to be."

Angelica turned back to Aggie. "Oh, Arthur's so busy right now with his plans that I've hesitated to set a date. He just has so much to do, so much going on that a wedding and honeymoon would just be horribly inconvenient." She showed her dimples again. "This cruise is a sort of pre-honeymoon trip."

_Hah! I knew it! _The judge bit back a triumphant grin. _Plans, huh? I'll just bet. The only question is whether she's in on it or not._

"Oh, Arthur! Arthur, here I am!" Angelica floated a graceful hand and Aggie and the judge decided two was company

"Nice couple, aren't they, Milt," said Aggie dryly.

"Oh, yeah," he responded. "_Real _nice."

00000

"And then Aunt May won a twenty dollar certificate to the ship's gift shop," McCormick crowed. "Columbo, of all people – she knew the title of the episode, the name of the bad guy and the plot of the murder."

"Oh, dear," flustered May. "I believe I was just carried away by the excitement. I never meant to make such a spectacle of myself."

Mark grinned at her, then shifted his gaze to Zora. "And then Aunt Zora knew the middle name of the police inspector in Lex Portly's books and _she _won five free bingo cards." He chuckled. "We had a _great _time."

Aggie finished her shrimp salad and patted at her lips with her napkin. "How was the Build-A-Mystery? I would think anyone at this table would be good at that."

To her surprise, the Aunts and the judge looked self-conscious.

"Oh, dear, no," murmured May. "It must be _so _difficult to write an entire mystery. So much work, you know."

Hardcastle cleared his throat and nodded. "Yeah, something that's not complete dreck anyway. I mean, something worth reading." He prodded uncertainly at the remains of his Caribbean Chicken, then gave up. "I wanted a piece of that pineapple cake, but there's just no way."

Zora motioned to May, then stood up. "We're going to have a little rest for a bit. Just an hour or so. We have a demonstration of different caliber gunshot wounds at three o'clock." She smiled gently at McCormick. "Mark, dear, why don't you try to find that nice Mary Sue Kolpeckny and buy her a foofy drink?"

"Foofy drink?" he asked.

"One of those drinks in a souvenir glass with all the plastic things coming out of the top," May explained. "The Silver Starlight is wonderful."

The Aunts waved and strolled off toward the elevator.

Mark regarded the judge with a wry smile. "Okay, out with it."

"What? What'd _I _do?"

"I don't know," McCormick looked at Aggie. "What's he been up to that he hasn't told me?"

Aggie looked from one man to the other. "How does he know you have something you want to tell him?"

The judge shrugged. "I dunno. Lucky guess?"

"Hah! You think I don't know what it means when you sit there and rub your chin and mutter to yourself?" Mark shook his head. "The Aunts noticed, too, but were too polite to say anything."

"Yeah, but you," retorted Hardcastle, "you're not polite at all, huh?"

"Nope," Mark grinned. "So?"

Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and tilted his head pensively. "It's just that we saw Harry Ruby come up to Farnell and introduce himself. They got real chummy real fast. Spent almost an hour talking to each other." He caught himself rubbing his chin again and changed it to a nose-rub instead. "I'm just wondering if they really knew each other before and have something going on here."

Aggie sighed. "How romantic. We were sitting by the pool," she explained to Mark, "and I thought he was looking off into the distance contemplating which flowers to buy for me to wear to dinner, and all the time he was imagining a criminal conspiracy." She sighed again and looked mournfully at the judge. "Oh, Milt. How disappointing."

McCormick made his hmmp noise and threw his napkin onto his empty plate. "I think you two ought to be alone." He leaned over to the judge and stage-whispered, "Don't forget to find out what color dress she's wearing." Straightening up, he added in a normal tone, "A foofy drink, hmm?"

00000

"I just wanted to make sure he was gonna make it to dinner with us tonight. It's kind of a special occasion." The judge surreptitiously slipped a hand into his shirt pocket. "Maybe you could do me a favor and remind him?"

Nate finished arranging his sheet music on the piano and smiled sourly. "A favor, huh? Sure, I'll remind him, if he turns up before show time."

Hardcastle extended a hand folded around a ten-dollar bill. "I'd sure appreciate it. Make sure he remembers it's formal night, too, okay?"

"Yeah, will do." Nate looked around carefully, then took the bill from the judge. Examining the denomination, he suddenly became more helpful. "Hey, you know what he's been up to? He's been following that 'I don't speak French' girl . . . the pretty blonde." Nate laughed shortly. "Trying to find out what's the deal with her. Is she really that dumb, or was it some kind of come-on. What a jerk."

The judge smiled slightly. "Well, Sonny's one-of-a-kind. Good thing, too."

"You can say that again," Nate sniffed. "So that's his kid, huh? The guy that was with you in the buffet? Funny he never mentioned he had a kid."

"Nah. I don't think it even occurs to Sonny except when something unusual happens and they get together by chance." Hardcastle snorted. "It's Sonny's loss, though."

Nate nodded emphatically. "Anybody that had Sonny for a dad, I feel sorry for 'em. Hey, thanks. And I'll be sure to remind him about tonight."

00000

"A foofy drink? What's that?" asked Mary.

Mark smiled at her amusedly. "It's the Aunts' term for one of these." He extended a hand with a tall, frosted glass. "This one is a Silver Starlight, and I have Aunt May's guarantee that it's really good."

"Well . . . thank you." Mary accepted the glass and sampled the Starlight tentatively. "Ooh, it _is _good."

"Aunt May's never wrong." McCormick dropped onto the deck chair beside her. "So, you come here often? What's your sign?"

Mary chuckled and sipped at her drink again. "You _are _nice. Thank you for . . . for caring, I guess." She regarded him shyly. "I suppose I trusted you right from the start. I don't really make a habit of confiding in strangers, honest."

"Well," he said slowly, "we're not exactly strangers any more. I mean, we've got a lot in common, with the Aunts and being on this cruise." He sought for a neutral topic. "Hey, they said you'd written a book, a mystery."

"Ye-es. It wasn't very good, I'm afraid." She looked down at the deck and waved a hand self-deprecatingly.

Mark smiled at the remembrance of the latest mystery he'd read. "Tell me about it," he suggested winningly.

"Oh, it was just something I did as a hobby, almost. And the silly thing was, I couldn't bear to kill off one of my characters after I'd written about them, so I made the victim a real bad person. A mobster. I had someone strangle him." She tasted her Starlight again. "If you're just being polite, I'll stop there."

"No, no," McCormick protested. "It sounds fascinating."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Don't we all look nice," beamed Aunt Zora.

May nodded in pleased agreement. "It's fun to get all gussied up once in a while. Milton, your tie. Here, let me." She straightened it triflingly, then patted him on the arm. "Very nice, indeed, dear. And Agatha, what lovely flowers! They're a perfect match for your dress."

"Thank you." Aggie touched the orchids gently. "They were a gift." She smiled slyly at the judge, who coughed and turned away.

Mark looked up from scanning the room. "But _I _have new cufflinks. Aggie, did you see the monogram on them?" He held out an arm for her to inspect the massy gold links, then turned back to the Aunts. "Thank you again. They're really great. But you shouldn't have."

Zora lifted her chin in mock indignation. "Well, if we can't give our favorite nephew a birthday present without it being a big deal . . ."

"Favorite nephew?" grunted the judge. "What about _me_?"

"You're a very close second, dear," said May calmly. "Keep trying."

McCormick smiled, then looked around the room once more. "He's not coming. Why don't we all sit down?"

"Oh, we can give him a few more minutes, Mark." Zora looked troubled. "The captain's not here yet, and we can't start without him."

Hardcastle scowled ferociously at the door. "If he doesn't make it tonight, I swear I'll break his arm," he growled to Aggie.

McCormick shrugged casually, then turned to Aunt May. "How was the gunshot wound demo? Lots of fun?"

May smiled at him primly. "_Lots _of fun. Did you find Mary?"

At that moment, the captain appeared at the table and the stewards moved forward to pull back chairs and seat the company.

Aunt Zora thanked the steward at her chair, then gestured to the table and whispered to him. He nodded and removed the chair next to her, sliding Mark's chair closer. Then he took away the place setting that had been meant for Sonny.

"His arm _and_ his leg," breathed the judge.

The tink of a knife on a glass got the attention of everyone at the table. The captain made his traditional toast, glasses were raised, and the dinner commenced.

Hardcastle harrumphed quietly, then raised his glass again. "I'd just like to say," he addressed the Aunts and Aggie, "that the three most beautiful ladies in the room are sitting right here."

"Why, Milton, how chivalrous." Zora ducked her head in acknowledgement.

Aggie winked at him, then smiled broadly.

"And you two are the handsomest men," May raised her glass to the judge and Mark. "Mark, dear, happy birthday!"

The others echoed her, raising their glasses in birthday wishes and dinner was served.

"Mark's not eating very much," Zora observed quietly to her sister after the salads had been removed.

May nodded sagely. "I hope he's not upset over that scoundrel of a father of his." She smiled appreciatively at the broiled lobster set in front of her. "Maybe he's just seasick," she added hopefully. "A little ginger tea and he'll be right as rain."

Dinner proceeded smoothly, with the captain introducing himself to his dinner guests individually between courses.

"Good evening. I'm Captain Petroukis. Glad to have you aboard," he bowed to Aunt May. "And you are?

"Good evening, Captain," she replied graciously. "I'm Miss Hardcastle and this is my sister, Mrs. Harrison." She motioned toward Zora, who nodded in her turn.

"Captain Petroukis, very pleased to meet you." She dimpled at the distinguished, gray-bearded man. "We're having such a wonderful time. And this is Agatha Wainwright, a new friend of ours."

"Ms. Wainwright," the captain bowed yet again.

"Captain, may I ask about the weather forecast?" Aggie extended a hand in greeting, but kept a somber expression.

Captain Petroukis smiled at her as her took her hand. "Are you a seasoned traveler, or perhaps familiar with the weather in this climate?"

"I'm a pilot, and I live in San Rio." She smiled impishly. "And you're not answering my question."

The captain's eyes gleamed in amusement. "You're quite correct." He held up a palm to forestall any further questions. "There may be some amount of rain in the next day or two, but nothing to worry about, I assure you." He turned to the judge and offered his hand.

"And you, sir. Welcome aboard."

"Thank you," said Hardcastle politely. "Nice boat you got here."

The other groaned in unison and McCormick hastened to divert the captain's attention from the judge's _faux pas_.

"Mark McCormick. My first cruise, too, and it's a beautiful _ship_." He looked at the judge significantly.

"My thanks, Mr. McCormick. She is a beautiful ship and we are very proud of her." Petroukis looked up to see the stewards clearing away for dessert. "I hope you all enjoy the rest of our journey. A pleasure to meet you all."

"_Boat_," murmured Mark.

"_She_," hissed the judge.

They watched Captain Petroukis move down to his seat in the middle, and there greet Arthur Farnell and his fiancée'. Angelica sparkled and gleamed from the jewelry she wore and her big blue eyes and white smile. The captain bowed to her twice and seemed to find it difficult to introduce himself to Farnell for a few minutes. Finally, Petroukis moved back to his seat and Farnell lifted his wine glass and smiled smugly at the judge.

"What a production," tsk'ed Aunt May. "In my day, young ladies didn't make up to strange men like that."

"No? How did they make up to strange men, dear?" Zora asked innocently.

Aggie and Mark giggled at May's expression, but Hardcastle kept watching Farnell.

"He's up to something, I know he is." The judge turned to McCormick. "You gonna help me keep an eye on him? I got copies of his records while I was in San Rio."

"Sure, Judge," Mark sighed. "I'll read through the files while I'm lying on a deck chair, having a foofy drink. Okay?"

Hardcastle seemed to realize he might be asking a bit much, so he took what he could get gracefully. "Good! Then you can keep an eye on the two of 'em while I try to figure out what's going on. You gonna eat that or just play with it?"

McCormick toyed with his baked Alaska a bit longer and finally conceded defeat. "I think I'll go up on deck for a while. The _ship _seems to be rocking more tonight. No, really," he held up a hand as Hardcastle started to rise to accompany him. "A little fresh air, maybe another pill, and I'll be fine."

The Aunts looked at each other and nodded. "Ginger tea," they murmured to each other.

Aggie noticed Farnell's fiancée leaving the dining hall and called the judge's attention to it. "Want me to tag along and see if she's just going to the ladies' room, Milt?"

"Nah, thanks though. He's the one I'm really interested in; she's just window dressing. But we could still tag along and check on McCormick on deck. See if he's feeling any better."

May rose immediately, and stated, "We'll all go. I'm not happy with how he's feeling and I think he ought to go straight to bed until the waves calm down."

Zora nodded in agreement, and led the way out of the dining hall to the elevators that ran up to the observation deck.

Once there, no one could find McCormick.

00000

Breathing in the chill ocean air did seem to help, even though the ship seemed to be tilting from side to side more than ever now. _Maybe it was just all the smoke and noise and food. Maybe_, thought Mark honestly, _it was stress because Sonny didn't show up. _He concentrated for moment, then, _Nah. I really don't care. Actually, I would've been surprised if he had._

Mark leaned on the railing and watched the glitter and foam of the ship's wake. _I just wish everybody else would get over it. The Aunts were so upset, and Hardcastle was ready to spit. But what does it matter anyway? They're all the family I need._ He smiled to himself, remembering the fun Aunt May and Aunt Zora had at the trivia contest. _I __love__ the Aunts! And Aggie. And . . . I'm having a terrific time on this cruise. Why can't we all just forget Sonny's even here? Just ignore him._

_Yeah. That's an idea. _McCormick straightened, then cautiously thought about his stomach. _Hmm. Much better now. _He turned from the rail and wrinkled his brown in thought. _Yeah, that's what I'll do. I'll go find Sonny and tell him it's all over. We're just . . . ha! "Strangers in the Night". And I'll ask him to stay out of everybody's way for the rest of the cruise. We can both just get on with our lives and forget we're related, technically. Yeah._

The wind was picking up and the ship's motion was slowly increasing, but McCormick strode defiantly over to the staircase leading to the lower decks. _Probably should've done this a long time ago._

00000

Aggie reported back to the others. "One of the deckhands saw someone up here a few minutes ago, but said whoever it was went down those stairs." She pointed aft toward the main stairs leading down one level.

"Oh, dear." Aunt Zora looked at May with an expression of dismay. "He's gone to find Sonny, hasn't he?"

Hardcastle pounded a clenched fist on the railing. "Dammit." He forestalled the Aunts' protest with a raised hand. "Sorry."

"Well," said Aggie practically, "do we want them to hash this out by themselves, or are we going after him?"

The Aunts looked at each other, then at the judge, who sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose glumly.

"I guess," he said reluctantly, "we oughtta let them deal with it. I mean, it's not really any of our business, is it?"

Aggie gave him a look of disbelief. "Are you serious? Come on!"

May and Zora sighed in relief and hurried after her, with the judge right behind them.

00000

"Right back there," said the drummer pointing down a backstage corridor. "'Least that's where he was headed when I saw him. Probably tracking some dame. You know Sonny."

"Unfortunately," Mark muttered. "Thanks." He strode down the corridor, checking open doorways as he went. When he came to the one at the end of the hallway, he stopped abruptly. There was Sonny, all right, bending over a body on the floor of the dressing room. The body of Harry Ruby.

Sonny straightened up at McCormick's appearance. "Hey, kid. Look. This guy's _dead_!"

"Oh, Sonny," Mark groaned. He put a head to his forehead and closed his eyes. "I don't believe this." He took a deep breath, opened his eyes again and said resolutely, "Okay. Tell me exactly what happened."

Before Sonny could say more than, "Hey, wait a minute--" the Aunts appeared in the doorway and gasped in shock. "Mark, are you all right?" May then asked worriedly.

Aggie was right behind them, with the judge directly behind her. She turned to Hardcastle at once and said, "The captain?"

He nodded and said as she left, "Quick as you can," and then came to stand beside Aunt Zora. "Nobody touch anything, okay?"

"Milton, honestly." Zora regarded him with patent disapproval. "We have to make sure the poor man is beyond help, don't we?"

May spoke up, too. "And it's not like we're unfamiliar with the procedure, you know."

Sonny hadn't looked away from McCormick. Now he said uncertainly, "Mark, you don't think that I . . . you don't think --"

"Sonny had nothing to do with it," said Mark jerkily, turning away from the others. "We came in here together to talk and Ruby was already dead."

Hardcastle lowered his brows and scowled at McCormick. "You wanna try that one again? You did pass the ethics exam, right?"

Mark stood unmoving, his back to the judge. "I was looking for Sonny, and found him in the hallway and we came in here to talk. Ruby was on the floor, dead, and then you all showed up." His shoulders slumped suddenly. "Judge . . . wait. I can't . . ."

Nate, the piano player, erupted into the room, shouting, "Some broad says there's a stiff in here!" He took one look at the body on the floor and went pasty-white. "Holy sheepdip!"

Aunt Zora nodded at May, winked at her, then poked the judge in the side with her elbow. "May doesn't look well. I think it's her heart!"

On cue, Aunt May moaned, fluttered a bit, then collapsed gracefully into a handy chair, pressing a hand delicately to her chest.

As the judge and Mark went to May's aid, Zora pounced on Sonny. "Quick! Run!" she hissed.

Sonny gaped at her. "Run? What? Where would I run? We're on a boat!"

"_Ship_! And anywhere, just hide somewhere until we can figure this out." Zora pushed him urgently toward the door.

Sonny took an indecisive step, then came to a halt as Aggie, Captain Petroukis and another man in uniform blocked the doorway.

"Would someone," asked Petroukis icily, "have the goodness to explain what is happening here?"

Aunt Zora held up her hands in defeat. "Never mind, May. But it was a lovely performance, dear."

May sat up in her chair, appearing unrepentant. Hardcastle looked heavenward and took a visible grip on his patience. "Captain, I'm a retired judge. Used to be a cop, too, and --"

The ship took a sudden lurch that surprised everyone. Sonny and Mark both assumed expressions of severe discomfort and the judge noticed a strong resemblance between the two for the first time. He supposed some of the slightly green-tinged pallor on both men's' faces might be the consequence of Ruby's appearance. With the lurch his head had lolled--in a strangely undead way--to the left, revealing the obvious damage to the back of his skull.

Even the Captain, a man who looked to be normally unflappable, drew a sudden, deep breath. Obviously Aggie had gotten no further than telling him a man was dead. He might have been thinking of natural causes or, at worst, misadventure. He turned to the man beside him.

"Officer Reynolds, secure the area."

Hardcastle heartily approved of the idea of cordoning off the crime scene and the surrounding areas, though he suspected the captain was more interested in a different sort of damage control.

"Might want to fetch the ship's doctor, too," the judge suggested diffidently before the other officer had even had a chance to acknowledge the captain's command.

Petroukis looked startled, as though he might have missed something in his first glance at the victim. He frowned, "He's not--?"

"Nah," Hardcastle shook his head in a definitive way. "Dead, very dead."

"Who . . . was he?"

"A guy named Ruby—a passenger."

"Perhaps a fall?"

"Not likely," Hardcastle said dryly.

"The ligature," Aunt Zora pointed primly. "He appears to have been strangled." She looked as though she was about to add something further, but halted at a sharp look from Hardcastle.

Petroukis frowned deeply, then turned to Sonny and Nate, standing a bit off to the side. "What was he doing in a service area?"

Mutual shrugs of ignorance, but offered with nervous deference, the judge noted. He felt a twinge of regret for his own much looser chain of command. Zora and May seemed to be controlling themselves with some difficulty.

"Whose dressing room?" the captain asked sternly.

"Mine," Sonny admitted.

"He was with me," Nate volunteered abruptly.

Hardcastle saw it all in just a moment's flash: Sonny's surprise and astonishment, quickly mastered and converted to agreement with the practice of a lifetime of weaseling out from under things.

"Yeah," the singer said, with a shade too much nonchalance. "We were, um—"

"Out front, by the piano, talking about the arrangement for "Begin the Beguine"—you wanted it more up tempo," Nate groused. A very natural tone—the judge thought he was way better at this than McCormick. "I was trying out something different with the vamp." That would, the judge supposed, account for any sounds they might have not heard.

Sonny stared at him, then nodded. Hardcastle took quick note of the look of profound relief on Mark's face. He kept his mouth shut.

Petroukis was half ignoring them, still looking down at the problem on the floor with what approached disgust. He seemed to make up his mind abruptly, then lifted his chin with a sharp jerk.

"Get Hemple, yes. Have him do whatever needs doing. I suppose we must deal with the body." He was addressing the officer again. "Hemple, and clear this area. There will be no performance here tonight. Get what information you can. I will radio the home office and determine what other measures need to be taken."

"You'll be turning back to San Rio?" Hardcastle asked.

The look Petroukis gave him was momentarily aggravated by instincts of command, then smoothed over by what was clearly a long-practiced and polite demeanor toward The Passengers.

"You may as well know," he said, calm, but conveying informed concern, "I will be making a general announcement soon. The storm appears to be coalescing. Hurricane-force winds are being predicted. The ship is, of course, in no danger. We will take the necessary steps to avoid the worst of it, but this will require a change in the itinerary. The path of the storm is between us and the nearest landfall."

He looked down at the body, then spoke again. "This man," he already sounded more distanced and distracted, "you knew him?" It seemed as if he was still addressing the judge; at any rate, it was Hardcastle who answered.

"Yes, mostly by reputation."

The captain nodded sharply, once, as though Hardcastle's tone had conveyed something he'd expected. "And from what you know, does it seem probable that someone might have had a reason to kill him?"

The judge hesitated, but not long enough to be obvious about it. "Yes," he finally said, "more than probable. This wasn't random, if that's what you're asking."

"Good," Petroukis said. He seem relieved, as though he thought this might be the end of it. Hardcastle supposed the thought of a serial killer wandering the boat would be a real annoyance to the captain.

Then, thinking he might have done a little damage to Sonny's fragile defense, the judge added, "Might be more than one person." Everyone but the Aunts gave him a startled look. He shrugged, offering no further specific facts, only, "Well, there might be . . . Look," he added collegially, "like I said, I'm a retired judge and a former cop. I have a lot of experience with evidence gathering. Might be I could help you out a bit here. This Hemple, he's the ship's doctor?"

The captain nodded.

"You're going to have your work cut out for you, I imagine," he said sympathetically, "what with this storm, and the course changes."

There were no further nods; the captain seemed unwilling to acknowledge even this much of the current difficulties.

"Okay," Hardcastle nodded for him, coaxing, but still professional, "I could lend a hand, help them get everything sorted out. If you want to check my credentials, you could have your radio guys get in touch with the LAPD—"

"Assistance, with the technical details?"

"Exactly," the judge smiled soberly.

"Reynolds," Petroukis said, his expression still somewhat sour, "I will leave you in charge of this. If you find it necessary, you may avail yourselves of Mr., ah—"

"Hardcastle. Milt. We met at dinner tonight."

Petroukis nodded grimly. "Mr. _Hardcastle's_ expertise. I will leave it to your judgment if anyone need be confined to quarters." He cast a fairly pointed look in the direction of Sonny and Nate. "Though you should try to avoid disrupting the ship's schedule as much as possible." Hardcastle interpreted this as another veiled statement to the effect that the show must go on.

The captain turned sharply on his heel, and left without waiting for more than a quick, sharp salute from his officer. At his departure there was a long slow exhalation from Officer Reynolds, as he prepared to take up an unwanted burden.

"Right, then," he said stodgily, as though he was organizing a relief mission to Khartoum, "we'd best all vacate this area so that the doctor can have a bit of room to work."

00000

They'd arranged themselves in the lounge area, clustered at the tables nearest the dais, almost as if awaiting a performance. Dr. Hemple, looking officerly in his white uniform, arrived and was escorted to the back. He'd brought a nurse and a bag of equipment, obviously indicating that the lines of communication had again not made the situation clear. When he emerged, a few moments later, he wore an almost scandalized look.

He whispered harshly, "He's _dead_," to Reynolds, who nodded back. "_Killed_," Hemple added, as if he wasn't sure if he'd made himself understood.

Hardcastle saw May and Zora exchange looks that could only have been clearer if they'd permitted themselves eye-rolling. Mark, still looking pale, was casting the occasional furtive glance in Sonny's direction. Daye seemed preoccupied, and a tad nervous. Nate seemed calm enough, almost flat.

"We're aware of that," Reynolds said. "Were you able to reach any other conclusions?"

The doctor scanned the small gathering, as if wondering if he ought to speak in front of them. Another nod from Reynolds encouraged him but he cleared his throat and began slowly.

"There are two obvious injuries, of course: the blunt head trauma, just posterior to the vertex."

Reynolds frowned.

"Ah," the physician amended, "behind the very top of the head."

"And his neck?" Reynolds asked.

"Yes, definitely some force used there, too. It seems to have been quite redundant. Either injury would have been sufficient to have caused death."

"Thorough?" Reynolds asked. "Or maybe just very angry."

"Or maybe two assailants," Hardcastle mused.

McCormick's gaze shot up, and worry flashed across his face. Reynolds was having another hard stare at Nate and Sonny. He seemed on the verge of a decision.

"Not likely to have been two people working together," Mark said quietly. "If one was strangling, the other would have most likely been holding. No reason to bust him over the head with anything. That'd just be noisy and messy."

"Very good, Mark," Zora smiled indulgently. "Also, you may have noticed that there was considerable damage to the scalp, and yet no other objects or surfaces in the room were bloody. It would appear that the person who inflicted the head injury took the blunt object with them."

Reynolds looked disappointed, as if he'd hoped to settle it then and there, and preferably without involving any more passengers. Hardcastle jumped back in, feeling a twinge of guilt for saying what had been on his mind a moment earlier.

"Ought to get statements from everyone here. Take some photographs of the body and get it into cold storage somewhere as soon as possible." He was calm and persuasive. Then he added, with just an element of the wistful, "I suppose the postmortem will have to wait."

The look on Hemple's face indicated this was definitely the case. The judge heard May whisper not too quietly to Zora, "The hyoid bone should be quite informative in a situation such as this." He shot them both a look.

Reynolds was nodding and muttering to himself, "Camera, oughtn't be a problem. Have to free up one of the meat lockers." Hardcastle felt the equilibrium shifting. Even on this increasingly storm-tossed sea, he knew that he was more in his own element right now than the other man.

00000

One of the ship's photographers was summoned. He came in, beaming professionally—another ill-informed participant—and left with a decidedly more sober expression. Mark leaned over and muttered, "Bet there won't be any 8x10 glossies of _those_ in the gallery tomorrow."

Statements were taken from Nate and Sonny, and the handful of people who might have been in and around the dressing rooms. The sum total of what had not been seen was wholly uninformative. One of the servers, who'd been in and out, stocking, thought he had heard someone entering or leaving the back corridor, but had no reason to look and couldn't be certain as to the time. The stories told by Nate and Sonny—even separated as a minimal attempt at guaranteeing veracity—were maddeningly vague and therefore unimpeachable.

The doctor had already left, stating that he had a considerable number of live patients to deal with, on account of the nasty weather. The body had also been removed—via a service corridor and discretely wrapped in sheets.

In the end Reynolds dismissed them all, Hardcastle having pointed out that so far they really had no evidence to call for the confinement of anyone. Sonny looked relieved; Nate only slightly less so. Those two moved off quickly, presumable to their quarters, with their evening's assignment cancelled.

The other five adjourned to the Aunts' cabin. Higher up, and at the outer side of the ship, the rise and fall was more pronounced, even without the slashing rain just outside.

May fetched a small brown bottle from the bathroom and poured a decent slug into a glass. Mark didn't protest or question when it was handed to him, just took it dutifully, though with a wince and a pucker as soon as he'd gotten it down.

"There," she pointed toward the little couch. He was dutiful about that, as well, even accepting a pillow and the proximity of the wastebasket, just in case.

She and Zora sat down on the edge of the bed. Aggie took the desk chair, and Hardcastle leaned up against the glass door to the balcony, feeling the shudder of the wind against it.

They'd barely arranged themselves when Aggie said, "What next?"

Hardcastle reached up, massaged one temple firmly, as though that might help push a couple of bad thoughts back inside. He finally let out a grim sigh and said, "If they figure out that Sonny owned Harry money—"

"What about the alibi?" Aggie said calmly.

"Sooner or later they'll realize Nate's lying. I didn't push either of them very hard tonight."

Mark's gaze was on him with an edge of impatient irritation. "Why didn't you?"

Hardcastle shrugged. "I figured it could wait."

"Then how come you jumped all over me when _I_ did it?"

The judge stared at him a moment, then shook his head slowly. "I guess it's no skin off my nose if Nate wants to perjure himself, but with you," his voice rose a notch, "I take it personally."

Mark's mouth opened; it looked for a moment like he was going to say something regrettable, maybe something on the subject of hypocrisy, when Aggie jumped back into the fray.

"But if there are two murderers—"

"Nate and Sonny," Mark said wearily.

"No, Mark," Zora said quietly.

"It can't be Mr. Daye," May added confidently.

"Why not?" Mark asked. "The blunt object? You know there were a couple of sinks back there in those dressing rooms. A bottle from the bar up front; wash it off quick afterwards, and back in place before anyone even missed it."

"Well, yes, dear," Zora admitted with a nod, "we did give that possibility some thought, but it still can't be Mr. Daye."

Mark frowned, not sure what he'd missed. May took pity on him and smiled. "Don't you see? He's the most likely suspect. The murderer is _never_ the most likely person."

The two of them sat back slightly, as though they'd just demonstrated a mathematical proof and need only wait for the others to catch up. Mark stared for a moment, then blinked once and smiled, thinly. Then he turned back to Hardcastle.

"So what does happen next? Who the hell even has jurisdiction?"

The judge was rubbing his other temple now. "Not sure, damn maritime law. Bahamian registration, an American citizen as the victim, sailing from a U.S. port, in international waters, closest port is in San Rio. My guess is it'll be whoever the captain can dump it on first. That might be Bermuda, or San Rio, depending on what path he takes to evade this storm. Either way, if we can't give them a more likely candidate, wherever we dock, they're liable to hold Sonny until they sort things out. And once the ship gets back to Miami, everyone else will scatter to the four winds.

"What we need," he said slowly, "Is some more suspects." He cast a quick sideward glance at Aggie, and then floated his favorite idea while looking elsewhere. "How 'bout Farnell?"

He wasn't surprised to hear a quick, almost sharp, "Why?" from her direction

Hardcastle stuck both hands in his pockets and dropped his chin. "Farnell knows—_knew—_Ruby. I saw them talking together yesterday afternoon."

"Arguing?" Mark asked.

"No, not that. But it was pretty intense—didn't just look like 'Hi, how's tricks?'"

Aggie offered no further protest, merely looking thoughtful. She finally cleared her throat and said, "Well, I vote for Nate."

"Yes," May and Zora chimed in, almost in complete chorus. Then May continued on alone, "The oldest trick in the book, the alibi alibis the alibier."

"But why did Sonny go for it?" Mark shook his head. "He would've gone for mine, too."

"Force of habit." Hardcastle said, almost gently.

"You mean, being a weasel?"

The judge shrugged. "It doesn't mean he's guilty."

The younger man looked doubtful. He finally let out a sigh. "Anyway, there's still the problem of the second murderer." He closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and said, with apparent reluctance, "What about Mary?"

Hardcastle saw no looks of shocked dismay on the Aunts' faces.

"That's very good, Mark," Zora said.

McCormick opened his eyes and looked at her in puzzlement. "But she's your friend."

"She's also the least-likely suspect," May said cheerily.

"But she really ought to have _some_ sort of reason," Zora added. "She seems like such a nice girl."

Mark's face had gotten back a little color, possibly from embarrassment. He finally muttered, "Might have been to protect Sonny, if Ruby was threatening him . . . She might be Sonny's daughter."

There was silence, followed shortly after by a restrained, "Oh, dear," from Zora.

"I only bought her a drink," Mark protested.

More silence of a profound sort fell on them all. The judge finally broke it, lifting his chin, taking a brisk breath, and saying, "Can't do much more tonight." This was spoken with a sharp look that took in his two relatives and the evidence elf on the sofa. "Just have to get some sleep and tackle it in the morning."

"Tackle?" Aggie said with some interest.

"Yup," Hardcastle said with confidence. "Divvy 'em up and have a go at 'em. See what we can shake loose. I'm the one with the semi-official status, so I'd better take Nate—he'll probably go to ground back in the employees' quarters. I'll have to roust him out."

"I'll take Artie," Aggie volunteered. Then, without waiting for any protests, "He trusts me, Milt. You know he'd never talk to you and you can't really force him, can you?"

The judge thought about this a moment and then nodded, reluctantly.

Mark shifted slightly on the sofa and then said, quietly, "I can talk to Mary." May and Zora cast him looks of sympathy as he got up off the sofa adding, "She trusts me . . . so far." His shoulders slumped a little.

"Okay," Hardcastle nodded, giving Mark a pat on the shoulder as he passed, "we'll all get some sleep and it'll look different in the morning."

"Yeah," McCormick muttered, "probably worse."

"You know, of course," May said, slightly less cheerful but still game, "the very least likely suspect is usually a little _too_ likely." She got up, ducked back into the bathroom and returned with the brown bottle. "Every four hours," she admonished. "And some sips of tea if you can manage it."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

As short nights went, it was a fairly long one, and Mark found himself awake in the very gray dawn. He considered, then took another dose from the bottle, washing it down with a little water. He walked unsteadily to the curtain and edged it back. The rain had temporarily stopped, but the clouds were dense and foreboding and the waves were more audible than seen, through the wind-ripped sea spray.

He heard some movement behind him and looked over his shoulder as he heard the judge say, "How you holding up?"

"Better," he lied, and then to change the subject, he said, "If Ruby was already dead when he was hit over the head, then would that part have been murder?"

The judge was sitting up now. He yawned, scratched his head and said, "That's a tough question for six-thirty in the morning. I don't usually do precedent until after I've had my coffee." He frowned. "Let's see. New York, I think, couple of years ago. 'Douglas'? No, weird name. Duglesh? Something like that. Guy gets shot in the heart by one man. Another man comes along and shoots him again, in the head."

"And he was already dead?"

"Yeah. The second guy was convicted of attempted murder, though you could argue that you can't even _attempt_ to murder a dead body. It's a factual impossibility."

Mark nodded.

"But, see, it's a matter of what the person _believes_ he's doing, and the fact that he tries it, implies that he believes it's possible. There's definite indication of a guilty mind there, making the action that followed equally guilty."

McCormick nodded again, very slowly. Then, after a long pause, he asked, "Do you think Sonny did it . . . the murder or the attempted murder?"

The judge hesitated. Mark was strangely grateful for that; it implied that whatever came next was more than a protective reflex.

"No," Hardcastle squinted at him, "I don't. Lots of different reasons and you probably wouldn't like all of 'em, but the bottom line is _no_." Then he added, "You look like crap. You oughta lie down again."

He did. He even closed his eyes. He heard Hardcastle up and about, and saying, "You need another one of those pills?"

"No," he answered, "and don't let me sleep too long, okay?"

If there was an answer to that, he didn't hear it.

00000

Hardcastle knocked on the Aunts' cabin door and wasn't surprised to get no answer. It was only a little past eight but he suspected they wouldn't be keeping vacation hours, now that the game was afoot. He headed up to their usual breakfast haunt and was relieved to find them still conspiring over their tea.

Zora looked up first, smiled, then looked concerned and said, "How's Mark?"

"Asleep."

"Still?"

"No, finally."

Both women nodded sagely. May added, "Might need a bit more cure. I brought two bottles."

Zora said, "We can have a little chat with Mary. The poor boy's in no condition to be dealing with all of that."

Hardcastle couldn't help it; he knew his expression was dubious.

Zora seemed to ignore it, merely adding, "It's no problem. We were supposed to meet her anyway, after the blunt trauma symposium. We were going to talk about the next issue of _The_ _Lexicon_."

He frowned, but didn't have time to answer before he spotted Aggie. She looked fresh, well-rested, and astonishingly sure-footed, even carrying a tray which bore a hearty breakfast. She wasn't heading in their direction, though, but making for a table across the room. He followed her trajectory and saw Farnell, occupying a table off to the side. He was alone.

Somehow the idea that the man was an early riser didn't surprise Hardcastle. He suspected, if nothing else, that Farnell possessed a fairly old-fashioned work ethic. You didn't get to the top ranks of any profession—even thievery—by being lazy. Aggie had said something, he saw the man look up, smile, and say something back to her, though he could make out none of the words from where he was standing.

He quite intentionally turned his back to them, pulling out a chair and dropping into it heavily. He reminded himself that she was doing this for the investigation, and that he would hear all about it later on. That man had the most annoying smile.

Hardcastle gritted his teeth for a moment and then said, "I've got to go track down Nate and have our little talk."

Zora was looking past him, obviously studying the couple at the other table. "It appears that Agatha is having good luck." Hardcastle didn't like the sound of that but staunchly refused to look. "Very well, Milton, we'll all pursue our _leads_, and meet back at our cabin at, shall we say, one-thirty this afternoon?"

"Okay," he grumbled, "one-thirty," wondering what Aggie and Art could find to talk about for five hours.

00000

He hunted down Reynolds first, being told by several parties that he was on the bridge and that was strictly off-limits to guests. He finally persuaded someone to convey a message, and, in turn, Reynolds came down from the aerie, looking like he preferred steering around a hurricane to dealing with the other mess. That was fine with Hardcastle; all he wanted was carte blanche to go into the "Crew Only" areas and authority to conduct further interviews.

Permission was granted, in writing, but there was no further word on where and when their next landfall might be.

"It'll get worse before it gets better," was Reynold's sole remark, aside from several "I don't knows."

Hardcastle left him to get back to his duties and set off in pursuit of Nate, finding him in his quarters and slow to answer the knock. There were no single cabins down there, no portholes, either, and the tight little four-bunk room reminded Hardcastle of officer's quarters on a troop ship. Nate was alone there, though--his roommates all apparently having morning duties.

He seemed surprised to see the judge, maybe a little worried, too. He backed away with a nervous expression.

"Just a few more questions, that's all." Hardcastle moved in, edging into what little personal space there was in those confines, until the other man, forced up against the edge of a bunk, sat down suddenly.

"Listen," Hardcastle sat down directly across from him and spoke with a confiding smile, "I wanna know the truth. Were you really with Sonny?"

"Yeah," Nate said flatly. "I was; you heard me last night."

Hardcastle hmmphed doubtfully. "You know the smart money says Sonny's our guy. I'm just wondering why you'd be covering for him."

"B-but, you're a friend of his, aren't you?"

"Sonny? Hah." The laugh came out sharp, almost barked, from a place with more truth in it that Hardcastle would have admitted under most circumstances.

Nate looked confused and said nothing.

"Oh," Hardcastle's smile went sly, "You thought you were doing us all a favor, eh?" he shook his head slowly. "Shoulda figured you weren't doing it out of kind feelings toward Mr. Daye."

He leaned in a little closer and dropped his voice to conspiracy level, "I _am_ a friend of his son's. The guy has been nothing but trouble for him." He swallowed hard once, pushed all hesitation to the back and forged ahead. "He's always coming around asking for handouts, in some kinda fix—booze, broads or the ponies." He sat back a little, sighed heavily, and prepared to add frosting to the cake. "Did prison time, too; he's an utter embarrassment to the family."

Nate sat, transfixed, as if he was having trouble keeping up with the sudden change of position of the pieces on the board. Hardcastle didn't give him time to recoup.

"This Ruby fellow," he asked, "you knew him? Know what he was?"

He saw the other man stiffen a little, almost imperceptible but there, along with a slight narrowing of the eyes. Then he shook his head and said, "No."

"Well," the judge went on, "I'll tell ya, he was a loan shark. Big one, too, back in Jersey. We've been hearing about him for years from old Sonny."

Nate looked shocked. But Hardcastle had a sudden reaction, somewhere in his gut. The earlier expression of total ignorance might have been real, or might have been a desire not to admit anything he didn't have to, but any continued defense of Sonny at this point would constitute irrational balking.

_Unless May and Zora were right._

"It's the oldest trick in the book." He heard himself say it out loud.

"What trick?" Nate asked suspiciously.

"Covering for somebody to force them to cover for you."

Nate went rigid.

"Dunno what makes you think Sonny's a stand-up guy. He'll fold like a pair of deuces when the real pressure starts. If he wasn't really with you the whole time, you'd be better off telling the truth now."

Nate looked wary. "But that'd mean I'd have to say I lied last night."

Hardcastle shrugged. "Human nature. You were trying to help a friend."

"No one's gonna believe that."

"Doesn't matter. They'll have their suspect and you won't have to answer any more questions." He kept it up, the patter. He made it all sound so reasonable. He could almost see Nate turning, seeking out the path of least resistance, then the collapse came, all at once.

"Yeah, well, okay, I thought I was doing the guy a favor. I didn't think he was a murderer or nothin'."

Hardcastle smiled. "See, now, you feel better about the whole thing, don'tcha?"

In truth, the man looked even edgier, as if he suspected the trap was about to close on him, but the judge merely kept smiling, until he finally coaxed a small nod from him. He was still aware that Nate had admitted to nothing in front of witnesses and, in truth, Hardcastle preferred it that way until he was sure he could scrape Sonny's hash out of the fire using alternate means.

He rose. He said a few more vaguely supportive and comforting things, backed away to the door, and departed, leaving Nate to ponder.

00000

His own conscience might have been feeling a bit guilty. Hardcastle's next stop was Sonny's quarters. He wandered through the oppressively narrow inner corridors, until he found someone to ask, then, through a series of directions, got up one deck and to the opposite side of the ship.

As befit a "headliner"—though of the lower grade—Sonny had a cabin to himself. He opened the door on the first knock, and looked as if he hadn't gotten much sleep. The slight green tinge that brought out the family resemblance was still there, too. Sonny frowned at him, apparently not even having enough energy left to protest the intrusion. He turned from the door and stumbled back to his cot.

"Aunt May's got some stuff that'll fix you right up," Hardcastle said cheerfully.

Sonny groaned. "May, she's the shorter one, right? They both looked kinda dangerous last night. I think they probably want to slip me a little arsenic right now."

"Believe it or not, they're on your side. They don't think you killed him."

Sonny raised an eyebrow and propped himself up a little more.

"Yeah," Hardcastle's smile broadened, "they say it can't be the most likely suspect. Never works that way in the books."

Another groan and then, "Terrific." Then he frowned, looking like he wanted to ask another question. Hardcastle didn't wait for it.

"Mark, he might not be so sure, but he's trying pretty hard." Hardcastle let that one rest for a beat. His smile was gone. "I don't think he can handle much more disappointment from you."

"I didn't kill Ruby," Sonny blurted out. "_Honest_. Anyway," his eyes darted to the side just once, it was both evasive, and strangely familiar, "You heard Nate. I couldn'ta done it."

"Nate lied."

Sonny's eyes tracked back to Hardcastle and narrowed further.

"He's rolled over, Sonny. He told me the truth."

"_You_—" Daye bit down hard on whatever he'd been about to say, his brain automatically shifting into Fifth Amendment mode, without even needing a quote from the Miranda card. But every trace of nervous affability was gone. He simply sat, staring.

"I did ya a favor, Sonny. You don't want to pin your alibi on a guy who might be a murderer himself."

Daye's eyes widened just slightly.

"Yeah, well, that's the only reason I can think of for him covering for you. It's either him, or both of you, maybe taking turns killing him." Hardcastle sighed.

"Okay, I'm only gonna ask you this once more, Sonny, and if it turns out you've lied to me, I'll make sure you're buried so deep in this thing that you'll never get out from under." There was no response but a miniscule, cautious nod. "Yeah, I hope you understand me." Hardcastle exhaled, then lowered his voice, "Did you have _anything_ to do with Ruby's death?"

"No, nothing," Sonny said with no hesitation and with surprising firmness.

"Well . . . good," Hardcastle replied with a decisive nod. Then he turned more introspective, half-muttering. "Then Nate, most likely, at least for one of them. But why? Your buddy the pianist didn't play the ponies, did he?"

"Not that he told me." Sonny shook his head. "Not that I ever heard. He was a small-time guy back in Jersey."

"With the mob, you mean? Rackets?"

"Well, he didn't play the piano at their weddings, if that's what you mean." Sonny said with a grin that was quickly tamped down at a look from Hardcastle. "No, ah, loans I think. Collecting, not owing."

"You're kidding," Hardcastle sat back, surprised. "Small world. Did he work for Ruby?"

Sonny shrugged. "Dunno, lots of guys did. But there were plenty of sharks in Jersey. I don't know who all worked for who. It's not like I kept a scrap book or anything."

"The hell you didn't; you had to know who to avoid, didn't you?" The judge pinned him with a stern look.

Sonny looked like he was fighting to overcome an ingrained reluctance to admit to knowing anything about who knew who. He finally croaked out a, "Well . . . _maybe._"

"'Maybe' what?"

"Maybe Nate used to collect for Ruby, back before he got into the entertainment business."

Hardcastle looked around at their surroundings and then decided to keep his opinion to himself. It was all irrelevant, as long as Sonny wasn't the other candidate, along with Nate, for co-murderer.

"Arthur Farnell," he said abruptly, "you know him?"

Sonny looked surprised at the change of topic, then nodded once. "Yeah, everybody's heard of him. He's famous."

The judge frowned briefly at this then asked, "He knew Ruby; maybe he owed him money, too?"

Sonny looked confused. "Nah, he mighta known him, but a big time operator like Farnell? He borrows from banks. No interest, long term loans." Sonny smiled. "I heard he's a genius. Never been caught."

The frown had turned back to a scowl. "Oh, he's been caught."

"Then why isn't he in jail?" Sonny asked. It looked completely innocent and Hardcastle gave him the benefit of a doubt.

He said, very calmly, he thought, "Legal oversight." He sighed. "Might get him yet." He studied the man across from him. The green-tinged pallor that had abated just slightly in the flush of accusation was now returning. "Listen," he said, "I do have some pills. Might help."

"Nah," Sonny said, waving the offer away wearily. "Got something from Hemple. He hands the stuff out to everybody, whatever you need as long as you keep working. Got a show to do this afternoon. What's the weather like?" he asked curiously. "Can't tell down here."

"Nasty," Hardcastle said quietly, "and it's supposed to get worse before it gets better."

00000

Mark turned over, puzzled for a moment about where he was, figured that out, then dragged his wrist up and gave his watch a long stare, trying to decide if the 12:05 was noon or night. The ambient light, just grey enough around the edge of the curtains, finally convinced him it was midday. He frowned for a moment. The last thing he remembered was Hardcastle telling him to go back to sleep, and now the guy was gone.

_The investigation_. He was supposed to talk to Mary. That much he remembered, though much of the preceding evening's conference seemed foggier than it ought to have been.

He got up, feeling a little unsteady. There was still a helluva lot of motion underfoot but at least his stomach was being slightly more cooperative. He took a peek around the curtain. Even the minimal light through the heavy cloud cover was painfully bright. The squalls were back. He dropped the curtain and leaned his forehead against the wall briefly.

Fifteen minutes later, after a shower and another dose of medication, he was at the door of the Aunts' cabin. He'd knocked twice and finally convinced himself that everyone else was hard as work. He wondered if he could find a piece of toast and some coffee upstairs, before he took on the odious task of bullying a librarian.

Lunchtime in the buffet was strangely subdued and lightly attended. Mark took some mild satisfaction from the number of people who were confining themselves to tea, soup, crackers, and the like. The occasional full-course diners seemed to be chomping down with an air of steady anxiety.

McCormick wondered, briefly, if word of the murder had slipped out past the careful watch of Captain Petroukis and his staff. Then he decided, with the wind and the squalls howling at the windows, that the mood was more Titanic-like. First class, of course. There were lifeboats visible outside, swaying in their stanchions just above the promenade deck.

He got a bowl of chicken broth, some crackers, and a cup of coffee, with the intent of being able to say yes with an honest face, when the Aunts asked him if he had eaten anything. He found a table off to the side, and started to sit down, when his eyes met a familiar face several tables over.

It was Angelica, and she was alone. She was fiddling with what was on her plate, though there were no obvious other signs of sea-sickness. If he'd wanted to describe her in one word, he might've picked 'forlorn'. He stood up again, still unnoticed by her, and carrying his lightly-loaded tray and a fixed smile, approached her.

"This seat taken?" he asked politely.

Her response was distracted, not enthusiastic, but she didn't appear willing to put up a fuss to preserve her solitude, so he sat down. He thought about asking her where Farnell was, but he already suspected he was off with Aggie, so that didn't seem to be a wise way to open the conversation. Instead, he went for the more general.

"How long have you known Artie?"

Her gaze sharpened, as if he'd intruded on the very thing she'd been thinking of.

"Oh," she said casually, "a few months. Since I moved down to San Rio."

Her tension seemed to be different from what had settled on the rest of the passengers. He wondered what Farnell knew about the events of the previous night. Guilty or not, Mark doubted there was much going on that Artie wasn't tapped into. Still, he kept it general.

"How well do you know him?" He was striving for a casual tone, but it obviously wasn't mere conversation; after all, they were engaged.

She was staring at him now, as if she was deciding whether or not to be offended. She finally drew herself up a bit straighter and said, "I know him well enough. I know what he was; everybody knows that."

It might have been the protective words of a future wife, but there was something a little harder in her eyes. Mark got the impression that if he suggested her fiancé might be a murderer, she would brush that away as well. This was a woman with a purpose.

She glanced down at her watch, pointedly, and then raised her chin. "I'm sorry, I must be going. I have an appointment in the spa." She was on her feet in a swift, graceful movement with no look back.

Mark sat there for a moment, watching her walk—no, she was _striding_—away. He frowned, picked up his spoon, took one mouthful, put the spoon down, and decided that technically this constituted 'having eaten'.

00000

Hardcastle wandered back into the public area of the ship, took a few moments to orient himself, then pondered the view outside. Not that there was much of one, the rain was pounding the deck and the windows. The crew had thoughtfully stretched a velvet rope across the passageway to the promenade deck door. From it hung an elegantly-lettered sign that regretted to inform the passengers that the deck was closed due to "conditions'" The judge assumed this was for the portion of the passenger list that consisted of idiots.

He sighed, balanced himself against the now-noticeable down-roll, and headed for the auditorium one deck below. Standing in the foyer, even with the doors closed, it sounded as if the symposium was in full swing. It would take more than a little up and down motion to distract some of these ladies from death and dismemberment, he'd concluded. He'd just glanced around, looking for a place to wait, when he heard a familiar voice from around the corner.

"And you hired a detective? Oh, my, how exciting."

It was Zora, and the voice that answered was softer, and unfamiliar.

"Yes, I knew the . . . _payments_ were coming from back east—the postmarks were from New Jersey, mostly. I had cashier's checks from a half-dozen different locations over the years. Then one of them came in an envelope that was hotel stationery, a place in eastern Pennsylvania. That's when I hired the detective."

"Just imagine, from that one little clue." This time it was May, breathless with interest.

"It seemed rude," the softer voice pondered. "I mean to use his own money to track him down. But I never really wanted the money. I wanted to know who _he_ was."

Hardcastle could picture the two of them, nodding wisely. He thought maybe if he'd sicced them on Nate, he'd have a signed confession by now.

Zora sighed with complete understanding. "Well, of course, dear. Your father and all."

"Then when I found out he was a performer, and he was going to be on this boat, well, it did seem like destiny—"

"Absolutely," May replied.

"Practically a sign," Zora added.

"But then when I got on board, well, I just couldn't. I lost my nerve."

Hardcastle was frowning. Something didn't quite fit. He had a question. He strolled around the corner, one hand on the wall for balance, and glanced up, achieving a look of pleasant surprise. The Aunts were sitting on a sofa in a small conversation nook. The soft-voiced woman was seated in a chair at right angles to them, perched forward, appearing involved in what she had been saying. All three looked up at his approach.

Zora smiled, though perhaps it was a bit thin. She could recognize a kibitzer when she saw one.

"Thought I might find you at the lecture," he said, with a duck of his chin in the direction of next-door.

"It isn't over for another half-hour, Milton," May said sternly. "We were supposed to meet at one-thirty, remember?"

"Ah," he glanced down at his watch, "I got done early."

"Were you attending the break-out group on rigor mortis?" the young woman asked stiffly.

"Ah, no, Miss—?"

"Kolpeckny," she offered a hand and he shook it gently. "Mary," she added, "and you must be May's and Zora's other nephew. They've said the most interesting things about you."

He was spared hearing exactly what some of those things might have been, when Zora, clearing her throat, interrupted. "Mary was just telling us a fascinating story."

The young woman blushed, but didn't protest having it shared.

"Yes," May interjected. "it appears that her father had gotten misplaced, some years ago—"

"When she was an infant," Zora added, "just like something out of Dickens. Very unfortunate."

"But," May said, "there was a mysterious benefactor."

"Monthly checks. Substantial amounts of money."

_That was it_, Hardcastle thought suddenly. _There was money_.

"Did you ever figure out who he was?" he asked.

"We were getting to that," Zora said primly. "She hired a detective."

"With the man's own money." May smiled. "Oh, the dramatic irony."

"Who was it?" Hardcastle asked, straight up, then suddenly became aware that his tone had not been quite as casually curious as it ought to have been.

"Nate, the pianist," Zora finally said, after a moment of hushed disapproval.

Hardcastle stood there frowning, trying that one out. He supposed 'substantial' was a relative term, and Nate might have come down in the world since his days as a loan collector. It certainly made more sense than Sonny sending anything but free hotel postcards, if that. And Mark would be pleased, he figured, to find his dating pool hadn't shrunk quite as much as he'd imagined.

"Have you talked to him? Your father, I mean," the judge asked, with what he thought was a fair amount of perfectly-feigned ignorance. "Does he know you're on board?"

"No, not yet." Mary looked at him, all worried innocence. Of course she did attend lectures on blunt trauma, but it seemed to be an entirely abstract interest. If she knew there was a man lying dead down in one of the meat coolers, it wasn't obvious.

Still, in a poorly-lit back corner of his mind, Hardcastle had become aware that he'd stumbled on the perfect accomplice for Nate. Whacking a guy over the head with a bottle from behind took neither strength, nor cunning, and might have been the desperate act of an otherwise decent woman who thought she was helping her father.

He winced. He bid farewell to the rapidly retreating prospects of Farnell for 'murder one', or even _attempted_ murder. He realized he'd been staring, blankly, and was being stared at in return.

"Are you feeling all right, Milton, dear?" May asked solicitously.

He nodded. "Um, sea's kicking up some," he added, as if it had just come to his attention. He frowned briefly at the notion of leaving the Aunts with a possible murderess, but realized that _sans_ bottle and motivation, the young woman really looked pretty harmless.

"One-thirty," he reminded them carefully. "We need to talk about our plans for dinner."

"Certainly, Milton," Zora said with a slight stiffness that was most clearly a dismissal. He took his leave.

00000

He strolled along the starboard passageway, heading for the main stairs that led back down to their cabin deck. He thought he'd better get McCormick up and see if he could get him to eat something. To his right was the Coral Room, well open to passers-by and designed to entice. The place screamed 'intimate'.

He cast a look sideways and saw Aggie and Farnell, deep in conversation at one of the small tables. Of course Aggie always looked like that when she was talking—involved, interested, _intent_. That was her, not necessarily something special about the person she was talking to. He frowned. He realized he'd slowed down and he picked up the pace again, thinking any moment she'd glance up and spot him there. He made it past safely.

He was still thinking about it, and absolutely annoyed with himself for that, when he arrived back at his cabin. He worked the lock quietly, but it turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. The room was deserted. Probably a good sign, he concluded. Probably meant the kid had woken up feeling better and went for some lunch. Either that or he was down in the sickbay, but if that were the case he would probably have left a note.

Hardcastle sat, checking his watch every few minutes, and trying not to think of the Coral Room. He finally wrote a note of his own, consisting of where they'd be, and then he left.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Despite his calculated dawdling, he was still the first one there, and had to wait impatiently for the Aunts' arrival. Aggie showed up only a minute or two after them, and took up her usual spot on the chair at the desk.

"You ought to have stepped in and joined us, Milt. You looked like you could've used a scotch." She smiled, there was nothing furtive about the woman. "Not even a wave."

"You looked like you were busy," he sniffed.

"Well, we were," she was turned sideways, with her knees crossed and an elbow on the back of the chair. "But Farnell wanted to tell you himself. He says he didn't kill Ruby."

"He knows the guy's dead?" Hardcastle said with worried suspicion. "You didn't tell him, did ya?"

"Of course not, Milt. This is Artie we're talking about here. He probably gets a special edition of that little paper the steward puts under the door every morning. His has the four stars on it and he forks over a couple of twenties for it."

Hardcastle gave a small, grim nod of acquiescence.

"Anyway, he says he didn't do it and he's mighty miffed that someone else did."

The judge cocked his head, now curious. "Why's that?"

"Well, for one thing, they're old friends," Aggie said practically. "He does have a few, you know."

Hardcastle hmmphed.

"Okay, well, maybe he doesn't mean everything he says in his Christmas cards," Aggie said after a moment's thought. "But he told me something else, and it fits with what you said."

The judge raised an eyebrow but waited patiently and without comment.

"He admits he did speak to Ruby yesterday. Ruby actually approached him. Artie says the guy wanted to talk to him, said it was important, that he had to tell him something."

"What?" Hardcastle asked.

"He never found out. He says Ruby got a bit secretive, said he'd meet him before dinner. Artie went to Ruby's cabin, Ruby wasn't there. He says that's why he and Angelica were late to the Captain's table.

"Either that or he was choking the guy to death in Sonny's dressing room." Hardcastle heard himself saying it, but realized he wasn't putting much conviction behind it. He frowned for a moment, then said, "But he has no idea what the message was, what Ruby wanted to tell him?"

"He _says_ he doesn't know," Aggie said thoughtfully, "but he acted . . . I'm not sure how to put this," she frowned. "I don't know, maybe he was just annoyed about not knowing, but I think he does have an idea, and he's not happy about it."

There was a tap on the door, a quick rhythm that was distinctly McCormick's. The judge strolled over and opened it. Mark ducked his head in a quick greeting and said a general "hi" to the rest of the room's occupants.

"Did you eat something?" May asked.

He smiled slightly and said yes to that. He looked marginally better but still had first dibs on the sofa as far as the Aunts were concerned.

Aggie brought him up-to-date. Then he apologized. "I never found Mary."

"That's all right dear," Zora said. "We tracked her down and had a little chat with her." Mark went pale. "Oh, nothing to worry about. _Nate_ seems to be the one who was taking an interest in her upbringing."

"Nate?"

"Yes, sent her money," Zora said.

"A thousand dollars a week," May added.

Hardcastle's look of distracted interest suddenly became a lot more focused. "Four thousand dollars a month?" he asked in shocked incredulity. "Where the hell did he get money like that?"

"Milton, language please," May said firmly.

He opened his mouth again, then subsided. It was Mark who raised the more specific objection. "No way Nate was anteing up a thousand a week."

"Unless he was stealing it," Hardcastle said dryly.

"From whom?" Zora asked.

Mark and the judge answered, "Ruby." It was so close as to be near-simultaneous.

"That's why he killed him?" Mark said, "Because Ruby'd caught on? But how was he stealing from him?"

"We don't have any proof of this," Hardcastle paced over to the widow then turned sharply back again. "But Nate did admit he was lying about being with Sonny."

He missed the first moment of silence from McCormick, being so deep into his own calculations. It was only a few seconds later that the more general silence congealed into something solid enough to attract his attention. He looked up from his thoughts and caught a look of absolute disbelief on the younger man's face.

He didn't even have a chance to figure that out before Mark said, in a tone that matched his expression, "Nate backed down? He's not sticking to the alibi?"

"Yeah," Hardcastle shrugged lightly. "I convinced him he wasn't going to get too far with a lie that bad."

He saw McCormick swallow once, as though he might need the wastebasket again, but it was something different. All that got out was a hoarse, "But—"

"'But', what? It was a lie. Nate's looking guilty as hell."

Mark shook his head. There was color back in his face but it seemed to be mostly the flush of anger. "Sonny has a record; he _needed _that alibi. You already said he's the first one they'll look at when we get to port. And you went and convinced Nate it wouldn't work?"

"It was a _lie_," Hardcastle said, stiffer this time.

Mark was on his feet, almost, but not quite in the older man's face, before he turned sharply away, muttering, "We've got nothing on Nate, just guesses. They've got everything they need on Sonny—motive, method and opportunity. Not to mention he's a goddamn ex-con."

No one told Mark to watch his language. That was probably a good thing, Hardcastle thought, but he had no chance to defend his actions before McCormick had made it to the door and was out.

The three women were giving him expressions with varying degrees of reproach, Aggie's being slightly more understanding than the Aunts'.

"You'll straighten this out," she said with a calm assurance that he was grateful for. "Once we've nailed Nate, Mark will understand."

"If you _can_ convince the authorities," Zora said quietly. "They can be quite recalcitrant at times."

"And then there's the matter of the second murderer," May added. "That part might confuse them."

Hardcastle didn't think it was a good time to bring up his theory on that. He sighed. What he really wanted to do was go find McCormick and shake some sense into him. Instead he leaned back against the glass door and surveyed his remaining troops.

"Listen," he said, summoning all his patience, "I'm going to go have another little talk with Nate, try and find out where he was getting the money he was sending his kid. Maybe you ladies can go find McCormick, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. How's that sound for a plan?"

No one had any better suggestions, so it passed without dissent.

00000

He found Nate where he'd left him, but this time dressed in his tux, minus the tie, and the jacket. Nate looked a bit fuzzy, but less nauseous. Hardcastle suspected he'd taken something.

"You again?" were the first words that greeted him when he stepped past the man into the room. The tux jacket was hanging casually on the back of a chair. Nate nodded toward it. "Got that afternoon gig to go to in a little while."

"Don't worry," Hardcastle said firmly. "Half your audience is in their cabin bathrooms, losing lunch, the other half are standing by the upper-level windows, counting lifeboats. Things are getting real interesting up there." As if to underline that assessment, there was a low shuddering groan through the hull. Nate paled again.

The judge didn't step out of the way between him and the bathroom. He thought he'd take his chances that whatever the guy had gotten hold of was effective. Instead, he waded into the surf straight off and said, "I was wondering where the hell you were getting the money."

Nate froze, no longer trying to maneuver past the older man. He took a step back, encountered the edge of the cot, and sat down.

"What money?"

"The fifty thou a year that the librarian was getting. You got any explanation for that? I mean, it's real commendable and all, providing for your kid, but that's a lotta dough for a guy like you."

He'd expected anything but a laugh, but, then, it had been a day for the unexpected and the laugh seemed very genuine, if perhaps a little strained.

"Oh, hell," Nate finally caught his breath. "That wasn't my money. Not my kid, either."

"You're not denying they were your envelopes and your postage stamps, though?" Hardcastle controlled his puzzlement, and waited for an answer.

Nate seemed to have gotten hold of himself; maybe his relief wasn't quite so pronounced anymore. He cleared his throat and said, "Yeah, well, that. I was kinda a go-between. I handled the details. Her father was a busy guy. He'd give me the money, and I'd make sure it got to her."

"Why all the secrecy?"

Nate frowned. "Well, her dad didn't really want to be a dad."

Hardcastle sighed. There was a lot of that going around, he supposed.

"But it also might've been kinda dangerous for her. He was a guy with a lot of enemies."

"Harry Ruby, huh?" Hardcastle asked wearily.

"Guess it doesn't matter who knows now, does it?" Nate shrugged. "Yeah. And I was just the front man. Like you said, I never had money like that. Hell, I'll take a blood test if you want. All I did was make sure the money got to where it was supposed to go; first it was the foster parents, later on direct to her. He did all right by her, I'd say."

Hardcastle supposed he would, and most people would say a check was better than nothing. He shook his head and finally asked, very matter-of-fact, "How much were you skimming off the top?"

"Nothin'." The other man drew himself up in a fairly good imitation of indignation. "Well, there's always a fee for handling money."

The judge grunted. "Did Ruby know how much you were charging him?"

Nate merely glowered. "We worked out all the arrangements. That was between me and him."

"Yeah, and he's dead."

That one got left lying out in the open for a moment, with Nate appearing unwilling to go anywhere near it. He finally made an obvious attempt to shift the conversation.

"So, how the hell'd you find out about Ruby's kid?"

Hardcastle frowned. "Does it matter?"

"Just curious, that's all. I thought I'd covered the tracks pretty well."

"She wanted to know, very badly. The money wasn't all that important to her."

"_Kids_," Nate said, shaking his head. "Glad I never had any."

The judge gave him a long hard look. The other man appeared oblivious for a moment, then gradually seemed to find it squirmingly uncomfortable.

"What?" he finally asked sullenly.

"Just wondering," Hardcastle said dryly. "You lied to me about knowing Ruby. I was wondering what else you lied about."

Nate frowned. "I told ya—it was a secret."

"You told me it didn't matter anymore. The man is dead."

Nate seemed to be grasping around, as if he needed something else to throw to the wolves. "Well," he finally said, "I'm not the only one who knew Ruby."

Hardcastle stood there, preparing to meet any revelations about Sonny's debts with flat disinterest.

Instead, Nate said, "That broad, the dippy one who don't know French from her ass. _She _knew Ruby."

Hardcastle's eyebrow went up, though he managed not to look too excited. It didn't matter. Nate was eager to share the load. "I heard him talking to her—that was yesterday."

"What time?"

"That afternoon, maybe two. He cornered her in the stairwell. I was a flight down. They didn't see me. He called her a fed."

"_Angelica_?"

"I dunno her name. The blonde. The one with that guy, Farnell. He knew Ruby, too."

"I know that," Hardcastle waved that bit away impatiently. "A _fed_? What else did they say?"

"That's about it. He sounded mad when he said it. She broke off, but I didn't hear her denying it."

There was another lurch and a longer groan from the hull. The pianist bolted past him, heading for the bathroom. Hardcastle waited for a moment, but then slipped back outside, and closed the door on the sound of retching.

00000

He trudged back up the utility stairwell and into the comfortably-appointed public lobby. He headed back to his cabin, half-hoping McCormick wouldn't be there, and disappointed when he was not.

He'd only just sat down, to try and think through the implications of the new information, when there was a firm knock on the door. McCormick might knock—under certain circumstances—though this wasn't the right pattern, and he hoped to hell these hadn't become those kind of circumstances.

"Coming," he said, loud enough to stay the knock as he crossed to the door.

It was Aggie, looking concerned.

"Find him?" Hardcastle asked, with what he hoped was a decent attempt at calm nonchalance.

Aggie saw right through him and shook her head tightly, then almost immediately offered reassurance. "But it's a big ship and there's a lot of nooks. He's probably sitting somewhere looking at the ocean."

"I hope not," Hardcastle said grimly. "I don't think he's kept much down the last twenty-four hours." Then he sighed. "Listen, I talked to Nate. He says the money wasn't his, it was Ruby's." He told the rest of the story in impatient grumbling bursts. He finally got to the part about Angelica and hesitated, then told her that, too.

"But I've never heard of a fed who operated like that," he frowned. "I dunno. I suppose I could have Petroukis radio back to the states, contact the FBI, but we don't even know if that's her real name." He threw his hands up in frustration. "And anyway, sounds like it's more Farnell's problem than ours."

"We'll have to tell him."

"The hell we will," Hardcastle shot back indignantly.

"Milt," Aggie said firmly, "you already admitted this isn't how the FBI works. My God, he's offered to marry the woman."

"I wouldn't buy the rice just yet."

"I think he was serious," Aggie said quietly. "He seemed very upset this morning. Look, Milt, he comes onboard with his fiancée, Ruby takes one look at them, then hauls him off to the side and says he's got something important to tell him. The man isn't stupid. He had to figure it was something about Angelica."

"Maybe," the judge muttered. "Yeah, okay, something fishy is going on. She's not a fed, not now at least. Besides, all his outstanding warrants are from the State of California. This wouldn't be the FBI's bailiwick."

"Exactly. So who would she be with?"

"Private, probably. He skipped out on some pretty expensive bail when he moved to San Rio. I doubt that he would have footed that bill himself if he coulda helped it."

"Angelica's a bounty hunter?"

"Most likely." Hardcastle grimaced. "But she must've used to been a fed, if that's why Ruby recognized her."

"She's invested months in this. Getting Farnell to propose to her. Persuading him to start traveling again. Do you think that'd be reason enough to kill Ruby, if he was threatening to blow her cover?"

"Yeah." Another grimace. "And if she'd kill once, for a reason like that, she might kill again. I suppose you'll have to tell Farnell. Once he knows, she's got nothing left to protect."

"Okay," she sighed. "Me, not you, huh?'

He waved her off and watched her depart.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Things were far from normal in the Barracuda Lounge. For the most part, it was deserted. There were only a few souls steadfastly seated at the tables near the walls, who looked like they might have been there since the start of the voyage and had no intention of budging until the ship reached its final port.

There was one guy, nursing a beer—staring at it, really—down near the front, but he was no more animated than the rest. The afternoon's performer arrived late, and looked mildly put out, probably at the lack of an accompanist. He was not greeted by a round of applause, only a couple of hand claps from the guy in front, just to show the effort had not gone unnoticed.

Sonny Daye sighed and didn't bother with his usual introductory patter. He strolled around to the other side of the baby grand and sat down. Then he struck a couple of chords, more melancholy than show-biz, and said, "Any requests?"

Mark shook his head no, lifted his beer off the table a couple of inches in a gesture toward the piano, and said, "I didn't know you could play."

"This?" Sonny looked down at the keyboard, played the vamp to "Fly Me to the Moon", and said, "Yeah, sure. Lotsa places can't afford two guys." He frowned. "We had a piano back then. An upright. You remember?"

Mark shook his head.

"Your mom taught you something. I think it was 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.' Yeah. That was it."

It was gone, all of it. If it had ever been there at all.

"No," Mark said flatly, and took a cautious sip of his beer. "She must've sold it . . . after."

Sonny nodded once. He started in on "Moon River", competent, but without feeling, and gave that up, too, after a few bars. He wasn't being very entertaining, but no one else in the room seemed to object, or even notice. He continued to plunk away at the keys, half-snatches of familiar phrases, like a nervous habit.

He finally came to a full stop, sat quietly for moment, and then said, "Look, kid, it wasn't like I meant to mess things up."

Mark sipped, and waited, not even sure which occasion was being addressed.

"See, I traveled a lot, even then. Had to. One week here, two weeks there. She hated that. I'd come home, and she'd give me a hard time about it, how she wanted me to get a real job, like everyone else, settle down. _Be_ there."

Mark nodded. The beer seemed to be staying put.

"And then one day I got an offer, a little further away, for a little longer, and I just didn't go home to tell her about it, see?"

It made perfect sense. Separated off from where he'd been then, what he'd felt _then_, it seemed like a perfectly rational decision. He leaned his elbows on the table and took a deeper swallow of the beer. Then he put the glass down.

"Look, Sonny, I get it. Sometimes a person just has to cut their losses."

The older man looked at him dubiously, then smiled. "Yeah, I suppose that's it."

"'Zactly," said the man in the doorway, leaning lightly against the jam. He straightened himself up, and walked in. Most of the sway might have been the ship's amplified motion. Arthur Farnell still looked fairly steady on his feet, though he'd obviously had a few.

"This seat taken?" he asked with an almost absurd degree of formality when he arrived at the table. Mark shook his head and the man sat down. He squinted over at Sonny and asked, "Where's your piano player?"

"Indisposed."

Farnell grunted. "Too bad. I kinda wanted to hear 'Blue Moon.'"

Sonny obliged, keeping it smooth and down-tempo.

"How many songs do you know with 'moon' in them?" Mark asked suddenly.

Sonny broke off in mid-chord and frowned in concentration, as if he was counting.

Farnell said, "Hey—"

"Just a sec." Daye frowned for a moment longer and then said, "Fourteen . . . no, 'Moon Over Miami,' that's fifteen." He picked up the tune where he'd left off. "That's nothing," he added, a few bars later, "I once knew the names of every girl in the chorus line at the 'Hallelujah Hot Time' review, 'bout half their phone numbers, too."

"Women," Farnell said abruptly, and for a moment it looked as if that would be the sum total of the remark. Then, after a weary pause, he added, "Can't trust 'em."

"Can't trust anybody," Mark said glumly.

Farnell nodded. "Nobody is who they seem."

The last chord of "Blue Moon" echoed in the otherwise quiet room. Sonny waited patiently for another request and, none forthcoming, tinkled out the first few bars of "Paper Moon".

"Henry Rublinski," Farnell said quietly.

"Huh?" Mark asked.

"Rublinski. That was Harry Ruby's real name."

Mark frowned. "Doesn't sound much like a mobster."

"Yeah, see, his dad was in the dry cleaning business. Owned seven stores."

"You knew him pretty well, huh?"

Farnell nodded. "He went to Columbia. English Lit."

Mark took his chin off the heel of his hand and looked at him. "Get serious."

"Would I lie?" Farnell asked. "He told me once, when he'd had one too many. It was a big secret. I never told a soul." He crossed his heart and held up two fingers. "I swear."

"Yeah, well, you're still alive, so I guess so."

"No, nothing like that," Artie shook his head, "me and Harry, we were friends. When I wrote my memoirs he looked 'em over, fixed a bunch of stuff . . . I never got past the tenth grade. Palmer High." He smiled slyly and touched the side of his nose. "Everybody pretends to be somebody else."

"You're gonna hate yourself in the morning," Mark said after a moment, and with a dry smile of his own.

"Nah," Farnell said quietly, "I already do."

00000

Hardcastle decided he just wasn't that good at sitting and waiting, though chances were, as soon as he went out to look for McCormick, the kid would show up back at the ranch. Or maybe Zora and May had already tracked him down—they were awfully good at that sort of thing. He might already be down in their cabin, getting tea and sympathy. If that were the case, the judge figured, he ought to go down there and work this thing out, try and get him to understand just how dangerous a false alibi could be.

He was on his feet, and out the door, turning left, before he looked up and saw her in the hallway, standing by the Aunts' cabin door. She'd obviously already knocked and was waiting in vain for an answer.

It was the soft-spoken librarian, and she'd looked up, just as he had, so there was no sneaking off unnoticed. He thought he ought to talk to her anyway. At the least he owed her an explanation, and at worst it was still conceivable that she had murdered Harry Ruby, just for different reasons than he'd thought before.

They were an awkward distance apart. He waved briefly, locked his door, and then walked briskly towards her, saving his hello until he was closer. She ducked her head at his greeting, looking nervous. He supposed he'd come across as a bit odd to her, earlier in the afternoon.

"I was looking for your aunts. No one answered. I don't suppose—"

"Out for a walk, probably," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The ship chose that moment to shudder and lurch noticeably to starboard. He put one arm out and braced himself against the nearest wall.

"A walk?" she repeated doubtfully. "Oh." She cast one last disappointed look at the cabin door.

The ship seemed to be engaged in a series of interesting rolls and bucks. Hardcastle seized the opportunity and offered a free arm to the young woman.

"We might find them upstairs in the buffet. You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

She hesitated briefly, then apparently couldn't think of a graceful way to get out of it, and so accepted the invitation. They made it to the stairway, and up the flight, without anymore energetic movements of the deck beneath them. It was only a few hours until the first seating in the formal dining area, so the buffet was nearly empty.

He sat her in one of the more private nooks, with a single table and a window out onto the roiling ocean. It was between squalls, but for all that the waves seemed to have picked up steam and were running fast and high along the side of the ship. Hardcastle got the general idea that the ship had been turned full-on into them, to avoided being broached.

He returned with a cup of coffee for himself, and the tea that she had requested, along with a small pile of napkins. They were partly for spills, which seemed likely, and partly for the tears he thought he might have to deal with.

There was no point to small talk, he decided. It would just seem silly in retrospect, once he got down to brass tacks. Instead, he started right in.

"Did you know a guy named Harry Ruby? Ever met him?" The use of the past tense was calculated. It provoked no response, just a look of mild mystification.

"No, not that I remember, why?"

Hardcastle took a breath and let part of it out. "Well," he said, "I've been talking to Nate."

She twitched at the mention of the name. It was perfectly automatic.

"It wasn't because of what you'd told me. I'd been talking with him before."

She frowned, her confusion even more apparent.

"But, of course, once I knew what you knew, I brought that up with him as well."

She started to open her mouth in protest but he overrode it. "He flat-out admitted he was the one sending you the money, but he also said he isn't your father."

"But—"

She got no further. "Listen, lemme tell you, and then you can ask me anything. I'll tell you what I know. Okay?"

She thought about that very briefly, then nodded.

"Nate, he says he was just the front man, the go-between. The guy footing the bill was a man named Harry Ruby." Again the past tense, again she didn't flinch, merely looked curious. "He says Ruby was your father. You're still saying you've never heard the name, never met him?"

She was very focused, frowning deeply. She shook her head no, and stayed silent. By now it must have been obvious that there was more news coming and it wasn't going to be good.

"Ruby's dead," he said bluntly.

This time she couldn't help herself; she blurted out, "But there was a check, just last week, right before I left."

"It'll be the last one. He died last night . . . course there might be something owed to you; you may have some claims on the estate. In fact, I think there's a good chance you never even got all the money Ruby wanted sent to you."

She sat there, looking shocked, though which part of what he'd said had done the worst damage wasn't clear. She finally said, with a control that was almost rigid, "It's never been about the money for me. I wanted to know who _he_ was."

"He was a mobster," Hardcastle said flatly. "A loan shark. He charged vigorish and when people couldn't pay up he'd have 'em beaten or killed." It was harsh but, under the circumstances, better perhaps than her having regrets.

There was no reason for her to take his word for it, but, just as apparent, no reason for him to lie. She simply sat there like someone who had been dealt too many cards to hold all at once. He reached for the first napkin, but she remained oddly dry-eyed.

"Dead?" she finally asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. He was on this boat, ah, _ship_. He was murdered."

This time there was a flinch, but it passed muster for a first-time hearing of an ugly fact.

"Here?" she said quietly. "Who?"

"Someone with a reason to kill him," Hardcastle said simply. "And we haven't narrowed it down to just one yet." He frowned at yet another thought. "But it might be that your showing up here to compare financial notes with Harry scared the daylights out of Nate."

He looked at her speculatively. There still hadn't been any demand for the napkins. Librarians were apparently made of fairly stern stuff in Kansas. "Listen, kiddo," he said, "as soon as the authorities put one and one together, and Nate spills that Ruby was your dad, they're going to put you on the list."

"The list?"

"Yeah, the list of people with a reason."

"But I never even met the man."

"You don't need a formal introduction before you kill somebody."

This time there was a glisten to her eyes, but it didn't get any further than that before she flushed and lifted her chin. "I never met him and, honestly, I don't know why I ever wanted to. He killed people to get that money? I wish I'd never seen a single one of those checks."

He smiled and handed her a napkin. She swiped her eyes once and honked into it, and that seemed to be that—just a high, righteous color to her cheeks and the determined set of her jaw.

"Okay, good enough for me. But since you weren't with Ruby yesterday, you were somewhere else. They'll ask; they'll want to know."

"What time?"

"Late afternoon, into the evening. I hope you weren't sitting in your cabin reading _Murder at Sea_."

She managed a quick, light laugh. "No, I finished that one months ago." Then she frowned again. "Let's see, I was going to go to the panel discussion on ballistics but then I wound up having a drink with someone." She looked briefly puzzled. "Do May and Zora have a lot of nephews?"

"They collect 'em," the judge smiled gently. "I'm the real deal, though."

"I think I could tell." Her smile was a little crooked.

"So you had a drink with McCormick."

"And we talked for a bit; I think we sat there until about five."

Hardcastle nodded sharply. "Then what?"

"Oh, dear," the flushing was back again. "I, um, was in a cabin for a while after that."

"Yours?" The judge frowned.

"No, ah, someone else's."

Apparently there were still a few old-fashioned girls in Kansas. She'd almost stuttered on that last bit. Then Hardcastle reran the tape back twenty-four hours and hit full stop. His jaw dropped open and he had to haul it back up to mutter, "But McCormick still thought—"

"Mark? Oh, no, not him. I went to see Mr. Portly."

"That writer guy?" Hardcastle frowned.

"Yes, he'd promised me an interview; I'm writing an article for the next edition of _The Lexicon_. You know _Murder at Sea_ has been optioned by a Hollywood studio. Mr. Portly is going to write the script."

"That's nice," Hardcastle said, then tried to drag things back on track, "So, how long did the interview take?"

"Ah, until I left for dinner; I'm in the second seating. I went straight there. That was eight o'clock."

Hardcastle said nothing about the three hour interview—two and a half hours, allowing for transit time; after all, it was a big ship. The question must have been on his face, though.

This time she didn't flush. She merely dropped her chin and spoke, barely above a whisper. "Well, we didn't spend _all_ that time talking about the movie project."

He'd decided he didn't really want to hear the details. As long as Portly backed her story they could say they were playing pinochle for all he cared, but she forged ahead anyway, apparently wanting to unburden herself of the embarrassment.

"He took a look at my manuscript," she said in a hushed, confidential tone. "He read quite a bit of it. He said it had 'potential'." The final word was spoken with quiet astonishment.

Hardcastle quickly mastered his expression, confining it to bland acceptance. Pinochle, or editing, whatever worked for people, as long as they could account for themselves during the hours in question.

There was a sudden increase in the pitch of the wind outside. The window—thick, well-set glass—shuddered, and the lights in the buffet area flickered briefly. There was a smattering of consternated sounds from the diners. Mary looked up from her reverie, now pale again.

"I think my pill is wearing off," she said. "Do you need to know any more about where I was? After dinner I spoke with some friends and then went back to my room. It was about ten. I read for a while and then went to sleep."

"No," Hardcastle said, "I think you've pretty much covered it. I'll need to confirm what you said about being with Mr. Portly. That's just standard procedure, you understand."

"I understand." She was paler still, and had gotten to her feet a bit shakily. He stood as well and offered her an arm. "No, I'll be fine." She waved him off. "Thank you for telling me everything. I think it's better to know."

And then she walked away, back toward the elevators, leaning from time to time, as needed, on whatever handholds presented themselves. Hardcastle watched her for as long as she remained in sight, then turned his attention back to the view through the window. Another bout of pounding rain made the deck almost invisible.

He had a vision of what it would be like to try to man the lifeboats after dark tonight, with the storm waves cranked up a few more notches and half the passengers barely able to walk—a goodly number of them wearing bifocals and toting manuscripts as well. He shook his head, got his sea-legs under him, and sauntered off.

00000

McCormick decided one beer had quite possibly been one beer too many. But that wasn't a problem anymore. He doubted that it had even stayed down long enough for any of it to get into his system.

He leaned over the sink, took a handful of water, rinsed his mouth, spat, and then picked up Aunt May's brown bottle from the shelf in front of him. It was nearly empty, maybe a half-dose remaining. He tossed that back, swallowed hard, and hoped for the best. Then he staggered out to his bed to lie down.

It seemed like he'd barely touched the pillow when he heard the rattling of a key in the lock. He had a couple of options. The one that seemed most attractive right now would be feigning sleep. The most likely, though, would be that they would pick up the argument right where they'd left off, even though all the fight and most of the indignation had gone out of him an hour ago.

So he sighed, rolled over on his back, and warily watched the man enter.

He thought it was a good sign that the first words out of Hardcastle's mouth were, "You okay?" but it might only be the equivalent of a ten-count, and as soon at he came up to scratch, the bout would recommence.

So he said, "Yeah, pretty okay," but stayed horizontal. It seemed like a good compromise.

Hardcase sniffed, and then made a face. McCormick couldn't tell, but he supposed the smell of barely-used beer hadn't quite dissipated yet.

"Where the hell were you?" the judge asked, though it came across as more frustration than anger.

"Went to see Sonny."

This got a grunt, the equivalent of _figures_, which didn't seem very fair.

"I didn't tell him what you did, if that's what you're thinking. I'm gonna let _you_ do that."

"I already had."

Mark lifted his head and looked at him sharply, then put it back down. He didn't know why he'd even experienced a moment of surprise.

He sighed. "Anyway, the audience was mostly just me." He hesitated a moment, the next name he mentioned would probably just raise Hardcastle's ire even more. He suddenly decided he didn't care. The judge was the one who believed in the truth at all costs. Let him deal with it.

"Farnell came in after a little while. He seemed kinda down."

Hardcastle grunted again. "Aggie musta talked to him. She was going to tell him about his 'fiancée'. A guy like Farnell doesn't much like the idea he can be conned."

Mark studied him hard for a moment. "Yeah, well, maybe it was that. He seemed kinda upset about Ruby, too, was talking about him . . . hey, did you know Ruby went to college?"

Hardcastle's frown was an answer.

"Yeah, English _lit_, that's what Farnell said."

The judge seemed to be digesting that one for a moment then said, "Hmmph, probably thought it was a good way to meet girls." The frown was back. "S'pose it explains the loan sharking, too. Not much else you can do with a major in lit."

Mark nodded glumly. Then he finally asked, "Where were you, anyway?"

"Oh . . . ahh, ran into Mary the librarian."

"You gave her the third degree?"

"I had _coffee_ with her," Hardcastle replied, looking a little indignant. "Anyway, she answered everything pretty straight-up. _She's_ got a decent alibi. She was with that writer guy, Portly. His cabin, two and a half hours."

Mark frowned.

"He was looking at her manuscript."

"Oh." The frown hadn't quite departed. "None of my business anyway. It's not like we're related or anything," he added with a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes again.

"You going to dinner?"

Mark muttered no without lifting his head, or even reopening his eyes. He heard Hardcastle puttering around for a few moments, then quit listening to that, as well.

00000

Hardcastle didn't have any plans for dinner either, not that his appetite was off, but he had other things to do. The oppressive high sound of the wind outside had lent a strange urgency to the whole thing. He'd begun to believe that they'd finally gotten to the worst of it, that it couldn't go on for many more hours like this, and that, once through, the captain would put into the nearest port he could make for. Then the whole thing would be out of their hands, and he had a fairly strong desire to have the suspect list whittled down before he handed it over to the authorities. He thought he could go have a chat with Mr. Portly, at least, and try to confirm Mary's alibi.

He didn't, on the other hand, want to spread the news of the murder further abroad tonight, certainly not to a probably nervous, and undoubtedly chatty, author-type, and definitely not when there was already an air of panic to most of the ship's passengers.

He sat down at the desk and made a desultory study of the day's schedule. He listened to McCormick's breathing even out and go deeper. Then, when he'd finally become convinced that the man was asleep, he nudged open the dresser drawer gently, and took out his calling card.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

The knock at the door, insistent, repetitive, irritating, was definitely not the judge, though it had a certain Hardcastle-like quality. Mark got his eyes unglued, realized there was no one else in the room to answer it, and dragged himself out of bed, muttering "I'm coming'"several times, but obviously not heard above the now-constant buffeting of the wind against the balcony.

The floor dipped suddenly under his feet, and he walked along the wall with one hand to steady himself, finally reaching the door. He fumbled with the latch and it got a little push from the outside once he'd opened it. Zora nudged in, not waiting for an invitation, with May right behind her.

"Milton's not here?" Zora said. She didn't sound disappointed. She peered into the room, then sharply back at him.

"Um," Mark looked around blearily; the place didn't offer many options for concealment, "no."

He sniffed. He hoped the beeriness of the bathroom was gone. He looked down at his watch. "I don't think I'm up to dinner. You two might want to just go on ahead."

"We aren't very hungry, either," May said cheerfully.

"We have a little project in mind," Zora added.

Mark's gaze shot up from the timepiece. There was something in the tone of that last bit that was perilously familiar.

"We've been busy," May confided.

"We found out which cabin Mr. Ruby was staying in," Zora said. "We bribed a steward."

"We've never done that before," May said nervously.

"Well," Zora offered in correction, "we've bribed people before, but never a steward."

Mark couldn't help it; he felt a smile breaking through his own anxiety. He tamped that down, trying for a look of stern disapproval. Zora didn't look like she was buying it. He sighed and switched to practical.

"Officer Reynolds already searched Ruby's cabin. I heard him say last night that he was going to do it."

Zora frowned. "He didn't have everything packed up and put in storage, did he?"

"No, the judge told him to just take a look and see if anything was obviously out of place, but then to leave it alone."

"See?" Zora said to her sister. "The perfect opportunity."

"Yeah," Mark nodded, "to get in trouble."

"But don't you see? Once we dock it will be too late," May said, just as firmly. "And, besides, the authorities will already be arresting Mr. Daye."

"They always go with the most obvious suspect." Zora sighed, and shook her head sadly.

Mark dipped his chin down, studying the floor in front of him, considering the probabilities. In Bermuda, or Miami, things would be sticky but not hopeless. _But if we turn back to San Rio . . ._

"I didn't bring any of my stuff with me."

May set her purse down on the desk and opened it, pulling out a nail file, which she handed over, and then drawing out a pearl-topped hat pin which, for length and gauge, would have qualified as an illegal concealed-weapon in the State of California.

"It needs a bend to it."

A folding pocket tool was drawn up from the depths to join the rest. "I bought one for Daniel for his birthday," she confided, "and it was so clever I had to have one for myself."

Mark took it, stepping into the Rubicon, and noticing, as usual, that the water temperature was not uninviting. He unfolded the device and found what he needed, clipping the end off the pin and bending it.

"Sorry."

"Don't worry," May patted his arm as she leaned in and looked at the finished product, "there are more where that came from."

"Too windy for hats, anyway," Zora added. "We'd better hurry. We don't want to be in the hallway when the second-seating people are about."

00000

They didn't linger outside the late Mr. Ruby's cabin. Mark was secretly pleased to discover he hadn't lost his touch, though he made a vow to himself to never again leave his wallet in a cruise ship cabin. He held the door for the ladies, noting that they'd both donned white cotton gloves, equally suitable for either a burglary, or a Saturday afternoon meeting of the Worden Ladies Guild.

He, not being so well prepared, stood back and let them handle things. He had to admit they took a rather professional approach, inspecting everything but disturbing as little as possible. He heard a few um-hmms and one very decisive, ah-_hah_ from Zora, that drew her sister immediately to her side.

"What?" he said, edging in behind them to peer over their huddled shoulders.

It was a stack of eight by eleven sheets, held together with brass brads—a manuscript, it appeared. He looked closer at the title.

"_Murder at Sea_? Ruby reads them, too? Hey," he puzzled, "it's handwritten."

Zora cast him a look over her shoulder, then gave it a moment's closer study. "Yes," she finally said, "and it's _not_ Mr. Portly's hand."

May nodded in decisive agreement. "Absolutely not. We've had several notes from him in regards to _The Lexicon_. We saved them all."

Mark sat down heavily on the bed. "_Ruby_ wrote it?"

Zora shook her head in disbelief. "A work of such delicate sensibilities—"

"There's a decapitation in chapter five," May said.

"Too much English lit will do that to you," Mark muttered.

Zora frowned. "There were those that said this volume represented a departure from Mr. Portly's earlier works—"

"A new standard," May murmured, "a freshness—"

"Plagiarism," Mark said definitively.

"Well," May said, "done with permission it's really more like ghost-writing."

Zora was frowning hard. "I think perhaps Mr. Portly took the term literally. Something must've happened to their arrangement, whatever it was. What would it have done to his reputation if this had come out?"

"Nope." Mark shook his head. "Can't be him. He's got an alibi. He was with Mary. That's what Hardcastle said."

"The two of them in cahoots?" May asked.

"No," Zora looked at her sternly, "not Mary. She's practically like a sister to Mark."

"Well," May said, "she _is _the least likely suspect."

"He'd go check her alibi," Mark looked up suddenly from a silent chain of reasoning. "Hardcase, that'd be the first thing he'd do. He'd walk in there and start asking him where he was and all that." He looked down at his watch. "I don't even know what time he took off. I must've fallen asleep pretty quick. It's been at least an hour."

He was on his feet. "I'll have to talk to Reynolds, try and find out where Portly's cabin is."

"He has one of the deluxe balcony suites, on deck eight," May said.

"818, starboard side," Zora added.

"It's probably nothing," Mark said nervously. "Probably just stopped by, talked a minute, then took Aggie to dinner."

00000

Hardcastle had invoked the name of Officer Reynolds, and his own semi-official status in the so-far hush-hush investigation, and procured the number of Portly's suite from the purser with minimum delay. In fact, it seemed like the staff was entirely preoccupied, probably going over the last-minute details of the abandon ship protocol, the judge figured.

He strolled to the elevator, and emerged on the higher deck. Up there in the super-structure the ship's movement was even more apparent. The deck swayed under his step, never managing to be quite where he expected it when he put his foot down. He began to have an inkling of what McCormick and the rest of the susceptible had been experiencing.

It was apparently a common malady; the upper-floor hallway was deserted. He imagined most of the occupants, even if they were skipping dinner, had retreated to the lower, more stable parts of the ship.

He found the room, knocked firmly and waited, then was half-surprised to hear sounds from within, and see the door opening with a "Who is it?" from the other side.

"Name's Milt Hardcastle," he smiled. The door opened and the other man—tall, elegant, and anything but portly—was eyeing him cautiously. "You might know my aunts."

"Zora and May?" A small smile emerged. Hardcastle thought he'd caught a hint of relief, which was not the usual response to a mention of the Aunts. "Yes, we've been in correspondence." He was still standing foursquare in the doorway, and had issued no invitation to enter.

Hardcastle took the initiative, using a one-shouldered shrug to gesture to what he had tucked under that arm. His free hand was still braced against the wall; he avoided a stagger when the deck unexpectedly shivered beneath them.

"I've got something here I was hoping I could get you to take a look at."

Portly, having dropped his gaze, now seemed to have his eyes riveted on it.

"It's a book," Hardcastle said unnecessarily. "A manuscript."

He saw the other man swallow hard. Couldn't blame him; Hardcastle was starting to feel the first twinges himself.

"Come in," Portly said, stepping back abruptly, half-stumbling with another abrupt sway of the deck and finding his way back to a chair.

He pointed to the one across from him. Hardcastle took a seat gratefully.

"Been an interesting voyage," he said dryly.

Portly gave that a sharp look and then a slow nod.

"You wouldn't mind?" the judge added. "Taking a look, I mean. I heard that you do that sometimes."

Portly said nothing. He held a hand out for the document. Hardcastle passed it over to him. He saw the man's eyebrows rise slightly with his first glance at the title page.

"It's a pen name," the judge said quickly.

"I was expecting something different." Portly's expression had gone quizzical. He riffled through the first section, then opened it to the first page and started to scan.

Hardcastle settled into his seat. Then, after what he hoped was enough time to not appear overeager, casually said, "I talked to Miss Kolpeckney today. She's quite a fan of yours."

Maybe it had been a bit too soon, or a bit too eager. Or maybe it hadn't been all pinochle and editing. Portly looked up sharply from his reading, a wary expression on his face.

"She told me you spent quite a bit of time with her manuscript yesterday," Hardcastle said, trying his best to sound completely unsuspecting, or at least non-judgmental. He really just wanted to know if she'd spent the early evening in this room.

"Well, um, yes." Portly sounded nervous. "I try to give something back, you know. Lend the benefit of my experience when I can."

"I'd heard that about you," Hardcastle said. He hoped his smile was more sincere than his lie. He hoped Mary didn't think this guy meant any of what he'd palmed off on her yesterday.

But, he supposed, an alibi was an alibi. "Nearly three hours," he said casually, "that's a lot of experience to lend."

Portly had scrounged up a smile. It looked a bit brittle. He segued into the role of polite host.

"Would you like a drink while I take a look at this? I find brandy helps settle things."

Hardcastle hesitated. He had a feeling he'd pushed a little too hard just a moment ago. For all he knew, there was a Mrs. Portly at home, with half a dozen little Portlys and a golden retriever. He didn't want the guy to go skittering off and deny he'd ever laid eyes on Mary's manuscript.

"Brandy, yeah, that'd be fine."

Portly was already on his feet, with the manuscript left lying on the coffee table between them. He'd moved over to the in-room bar and was fiddling with glasses and a bottle. It was a nice set-up he had going, Hardcastle decided. All this and adulating librarians, too.

The writer had turned back, two snifters in hand, making the brief, unsteady journey without mishap. Hardcastle accepted a glass.

"To the muses of mayhem." Portly tipped his own snifter lightly in a toast.

The judge gave that a nod and a sip. Portly had been right, the burn paradoxically doused the slight queasiness he'd felt rising and another swallow banished it nearly completely.

00000

McCormick had already made up his mind. He'd willingly put up with Hardcastle's ire, and his own embarrassment, if he interrupted him in mid-interview with Lex Portly, and there was absolutely nothing untoward going on. He reassured himself, through the interminable wait for the elevator, and the snail-like passage upwards, that his luck was far worse than Hardcastle's, therefore it was a sure bet that he'd wind up making stammering excuses for the intrusion. The only thing that could have made it more certain was if he had summoned official assistance—if there had been any available _to_ summon; he'd seen not so much as a steward as he and the Aunts made their way through the ship.

The third deck hallway was deserted as well. He didn't tap on the door of 818, he knocked solidly, and then, only a moment later, he pounded. Still nothing. He supposed it was a possibility that the two had just talked a bit and then gone to dinner, but he didn't trust Hardcastle's luck all that much either.

He already had the file out and the slightly-altered hatpin, as well. He braced one shoulder against the door to steady himself, though, oddly, he'd almost forgotten about the ship's movement until he tried to introduce the instruments into the lock.

He was, if anything, faster than he'd been on the lock to Ruby's cabin. The room within was just as silent and deserted as the other, with nothing striking at first glance. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see. But May had taken a breath in and moved over to the sitting area. She was looking down at something that had fallen to the floor.

Mark was close enough to see the cover page, too.

"He _was_ here."

"Oh, my." Zora was over at the small bar. "Look at this."

May was at her side in a moment. Mark moved a little slower. He was having trouble sorting things out, what to do next.

Zora had an uncapped pill bottle in her gloved hand. "This is that one Leticia Connors takes." She was speaking to May, who nodded back quickly. "The one she had that trouble with."

Mark squinted at the label. The first warning was _Do not take with alcohol_. He looked back at the table where two snifters sat, one empty. "What does it do?" he asked hastily.

"Poor Leticia at the Veteran's Day convocation last year," May frowned. "She'd taken a glass of blackberry cordial because she had a touch of the ague coming on."

"We thought she'd had a little too _much_ blackberry cordial," Zora added. "Luckily, Doctor Brent was there; he recognized the symptoms."

"What symptoms?" Mark asked impatiently. He grabbed the bottle, spilled the contents out onto the counter and started counting.

"It lowers the blood sugar," Zora said, "for diabetics. Like insulin does, only not a shot."

"Damn," he said, looking at the label again, "it was prescribed from the ship's pharmacy three days ago. There's twelve missing."

"He might have used some of them on Mr. Ruby," Zora said anxiously.

"And he was supposed to wander back to his room, looking drunk, and die in his sleep," Mark said grimly. "But then things got messy. _Damn_," he ran his fingers through his hair, then shook his head, heading for the door. "He won't try that twice. He knows Hardcase has family on board. He'll need to make sure we don't find him in time."

He was in the hallway, May and Zora scurrying behind. He turned as they approached the elevator. "You two, go find me some help. Tell 'em . . . tell 'em you saw someone out on the promenade deck looking drunk—something like that. Don't try to explain the whole thing. We haven't got time. The back of the boat."

"The ship's stern," Zora said, hitting the elevator button.

"Stern, right." Mark headed for the utility stairwell. "Hurry." He heard the door snick shut behind him, but was already half a flight down, two steps at a time. If he'd miscalculated, if he made the wrong choice, if the Aunts found help too soon and the help tried to keep him from going out there . . .

But he was already at deck seven, and ducked out into the hallway, from there making his way back, navigating the nearly empty passageways until he came to one of the velvet-roped doorways. It wasn't the furthest one back, but there was no staff in sight. He ducked under the rope and tried the handle. It gave easily, but the next part was harder. He leaned into the door. The wind outside leaned back, more secure than a lock, but then there was a sudden break in the gust and he nearly went tumbling through.

No visibility, and the rain, though not cold, slashed like needles. He reached for the inner railing, pulling along it as if it was a lifeline. He shielded his eyes with his other hand, risking a look toward the stern, not yet visible around the curve of the ship. He could hear nothing but the howl of the wind. His shirt already clung to him. He was wet to the skin and his clothing hindered his movements.

Some part of him had concluded, bitterly, that it already had to be too late, that Hardcastle was a mile behind and a hundred feet down, and he could only hope he'd been unconscious before he'd hit the water. He was clinging to the thinnest of straws to believe that the murderer might have been sufficiently inconvenienced by the effort of getting a semi-conscious man to a secluded place and then heaving him over.

But he clung anyway, out of sheer aggravated fear of the alternative. And then, as if his own imaginings had taken form out of the soggy, windblown darkness, he saw a movement, a shape, barely visible at the stern railing.

He shouted, not that he thought he'd be heard over the sound of the storm, but somehow he must have caught the precise moment of near-lull—the wind catching its breath for another howl. The figure, hunched over a second shape, was now turning toward him, though apparently even blinder than he was, facing forward into the wind.

He let loose of the inner hand-rail, to cross to the outer side of the deck. The wind chose that moment to change directions. The ship danced, and he was thrown to the side, catching against the solid base of the outer rail. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and pulled himself up.

"It's _over_, damn it," he shouted. The words had no effect.

He was close enough, now, to see the other man's face, twisted in fear and frustration, still tugging on the inert mass, now half-propped on the rail. It could only be sheer stubborn perversity, but McCormick knew all about that and plunged forward on the next heave of the deck.

He landed a body blow, pitched above the height of the railing while the man himself was pulling upward with his full force. It broke the contact between assailant and victim, and the sudden release carried the man further, his center of gravity now higher still.

He might have scrambled back, kept a grip on the rail, but for another gust of wind and a sudden down-dip of the stern. McCormick broke loose and watched him teeter there, in slow motion, trying to compensate and then leaning backward, too far. Only one leg left to grab for, and he only had one hand to spare for that, the other was firmly on Hardcastle, pulling him down on the deck side of the railing. What was still left inboard of the other man slipped through his grasp.

Mark didn't even hear the splash.

He was crouching; Hardcastle was slumped forward. He felt like dead weight and Mark knew he wouldn't even be able to drag himself back to the door, let alone the two of them. He was tugging, not much was happening, and then there was movement behind him, a beam of light, hands reaching round from both sides, ropes and sensible precautions, and orders being shouted.

Zora and May were inside; he saw Aggie, too. The Aunts must have explained things because Hemple had been sent for. He arrived with assistants, a stretcher, and the necessary supplies to start an IV, and he didn't stand around asking stupid questions. Mark sank down against the wall just inside the doorway, watching them set things up. He blinked a couple of times to clear the purple spots. Someone handed him a blanket, and he realized that he was shivering.

He heard Hemple say "D50" and saw him hold up an ungodly big syringe. _Like something a vet'd use_, Mark thought fuzzily.

Then, maybe ten seconds more, and he heard a low grumbling, followed by a very familiar mutter, that very quickly progressed to general grousing and one pretty clear, "What the hell . . .?"

Hemple looked pleased. The stretcher-bearers were ordered into position, and the whole little procession started off. May was dabbing at her eyes with a hankie, Zora looked relieved, and Aggie leaned in and said something to Hardcastle as he was moved past her.

Then all three ladies were headed his way. Aggie eyed him with some concern.

"You look like you could use a stretcher yourself," she said. Zora was nodding; May bent over and patted his shoulder.

"Portly," he said, "do they know about him?"

"Yes," Zora said. "I heard Officer Reynolds say they'll notify the authorities. There'll be a search party, eventually."

Mark nodded. He felt very detached about that, too, sitting there in the puddled doorway with the three of them staring down at him looking obviously worried.

"I'm okay," he said, bending his knees one at a time and getting his legs under him. "See," he got to his feet, "fine, really," and then, with only the purple spots as warning, he pitched forward.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

"No," Mark said, "I'm only _dehydrated_." He gestured with his free hand to the almost-empty IV bag hanging above him. "A couple of quarts and I'll be good to go." He smiled cheerfully. "_You_, on the other hand, were 'hypoglycemic'," he pointed to the bag hanging over the judge, which was not anywhere near empty, "and that drug stays in your system for a while, so you are stuck here."

"I'm on a cruise ship," Hardcastle groused. "I'm not very likely gonna collapse from low blood sugar."

"_That_ is what I believe Aunt May would call 'dramatic irony,'" Mark said, and then his tone got a little firmer. "You fall asleep and you don't wake up. That's what was supposed to have happened to Ruby. And even if someone had gotten around to an autopsy, after we were back in the States, by that time Portly would have been on the West Coast, hammering out the movie script and looking at a six-figure paycheck, plus a cut of the proceeds. No one would have ever made the connection."

"The manuscript . . ."

"Well," Mark said significantly, "there's plenty of _those_ floating around on this ship. How many people would have noticed what it was and whose handwriting it wasn't in?" He frowned. "Though I'll bet if Portly had known Ruby still had a spare draft, he would've been a lot more thorough."

There was the sound of ladies, conversing excitedly, approaching the curtained, two-bed cubicle in the sick-bay. Aunt May's, for once, rose above the others saying, very determinedly, "But I do intend to have a word with him."

Whichever member of the staff had been trying to deter them, wisely reconsidered and the curtain was thrown back. May was there, drawn up to her full five feet, in unaccustomed dudgeon.

"Milton, I simply cannot believe you _did_ that."

The accused looked a little blank, then muttered, "Still missing some of the bits and pieces."

"The piece where I sent you that manuscript, in all _confidence_?" May had her hands on her hips. "I never wanted you to _show_ it to anyone. I just wanted your opinion."

"Well," Hardcastle scratched his chin with his unencumbered hand, "it wasn't Zane Grey, but I thought it had its moments. I figured why the hell—um, _heck_—would you go through all the bother of putting it down on paper if you didn't want people to look at it. That only makes sense, huh?"

"It was yours?" Mark looked at May and then back at the judge.

"'Course it was hers. Why?" The judge looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes.

Mark shook his head suddenly. "Nothin', never mind." He let out a sigh.

May stood for a moment longer, tapping one foot.

"Okay," Hardcastle shrugged apologetically, "I'm sorry; I shoulda asked your permission, but I figured you'd just say no."

There was a brief sound of exasperation, and the foot poised in mid tap, as though she were waiting for something else.

"What?" he asked. "I already apologized."

"Well," May finally said, looking at him with her head cocked, "did he _say_ anything about it?"

The judge sighed. "Honest, Aunt May, I think he was too busy poisoning me to really get involved in it."

She looked slightly crestfallen. "Oh . . . well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to let a _few_ people look at it."

There were more voices, this time lower. Hemple was showing Reynolds into the area where the two patients were.

"Portly?" Hardcastle asked, before the first officer even got a greeting out.

"Not a chance," Reynolds shook his head. "It would have been an unconscionable risk to have even slowed her speed, and there was no hope for launching a rescue party under those conditions."

Hardcastle nodded, accepting what he'd already suspected.

"But the storm is finally moving to the northwest. We should be clear of the worst of it by dawn. The current plan, given the condition of the passengers, and the events of the past twenty-four hours, is to make passage back to San Rio, with all dispatch."

"Not Miami?" Hardcastle said.

"No," Reynolds shook his head, "the closest harbor."

"Less publicity that way, huh?" Hardcastle said. "What then?"

"It will be in the hands of the authorities," Hemple said crisply. "Though I don't know what they'll make of it. My evaluation is, understandably, not complete, but I would say the preponderance of evidence seems to point to Mr. Portly as the killer, with person or persons unknown doing additional violence to the body once it was dead."

He nodded once, as if that was that and he'd washed his hands of it. Then he and Reynolds left.

"Nate and Angelica are going to walk," Mark said quietly.

"Yeah, and we were _that_ close to getting Farnell back to Miami for extradition to California," Hardcastle added bitterly.

"On the other hand, we saved him from a _very_ disappointing marriage," Mark said brightly. "And Mary finally knows who her father was . . . now she can start getting over it." His face clouded a little. "And Sonny . . ."

"Gets to go on being Sonny," Hardcastle finally finished for him.

"Which is about the best he can hope for," Mark said quietly. Then he let out a half-sigh, suddenly looked up, and added, "This is the part I always hate, at the end where the protagonists sit around and discuss who did it and when and where, and why it couldn't have been any of the other guys. I always quit before then and go back and reread the chapter where the daring sleuth solves the whole thing while tracking down the killer before he can strike again."

"The daring, bedraggled, _dehydrated_ sleuth," Aggie said.

"Hey," Hardcastle asked, with a sudden sharp frown at the no-longer bedraggled sleuth, "how'd you get your hands on that manuscript of Ruby's anyway?"

There was a fairly dense silence, only broken after a moment by Aunt Zora's cheerfully determined announcement. "Rumor has it, that on account of the conditions, the cruise line intends to compensate _all_ of the passengers."

"Yes," May echoed, equally cheerful. "Vouchers. Just _imagine_," she paused for effect, "we'll all get to come back and do it again."


End file.
